


Disciplining Dickie

by reefofhappiness



Category: Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Child Abuse, Grooming, Kidnapping, Sexual Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-25
Updated: 2013-10-25
Packaged: 2017-12-30 11:05:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 39,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1017844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reefofhappiness/pseuds/reefofhappiness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for <a href="http://justice-kink.livejournal.com/1584.html?thread=166192#t166192">this prompt</a>: Dick is kidnapped, and then slowly conditioned and groomed by his kidnapper.  This is not a pretty story, because this is not a pretty situation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Right, so THIS story right here...man, okay. This was written quite a while ago, but it's taken me a while to get around to gathering it up and re-posting it outside of the original meme setting. Heads up, the fill of this prompt is seriously twisted and the warnings for grooming of a child and how precisely that escalates are no joke, so please heed them.
> 
> There are a couple of reasons behind the lengthy hold up of me gathering, editing, and re-posting this story comprehensively. First off was of course how much editing and html tagging (because I for some reason only did html tagging in the comment boxes on the meme, good going genius) this thing needed -- even though I did mostly only minimal editing because this piece is so old by this point. I grew with this story as I wrote it, and so I felt that basically the entire first half of the fill needed plenty of clarification and pacing edits, and I kept getting agitated with past me's consistent mess ups . Secondly, I basically have grown increasingly less comfortable with the subject matter that I wrote about here as time passes, so the mental fatigue encompassed in going through this entire story to edit and post was a bit of an uphill battle -- plus I just haven't had the time. 
> 
> The final hold up in me finally editing and posting this story is that there is a linguistic error that I was informed about [by an anon on the original meme](http://justice-kink.livejournal.com/1584.html?thread=505136#t505136). I tried to keep my use of languages I don't know to an absolute complete minimum and _still_ (of course) messed it up by using Romanian instead of Romani. This was a huge and offensive mistake on my part that resulted from extreme oversight and carelessness, and I deeply apologize for that. After I was informed of my mistake, I attempted various times to find the proper resources to correct and resolve the issue, and it took a while to find reliable resources with consistent answers that fit the story's context. If you compare the original version of the scene with the error to this version, you'll notice I indeed (noticeably) rewrote the section in question, hopefully accordingly and appropriately. However, there is of course the distinct and vast possibility that my corrections are still incorrect, and again I apologize for the whole thing -- especially if it ends up still being wrong in some way.
> 
> By this point -- since I have been dragging out this cleanup and re-posting and this story's ghost is just weighing on the edge of my mind (and to do list) -- if it's wrong I have to just be resigned to the fact that I couldn't figure it out on my own. If anyone who reads this knows Romani and has thoughts, good or bad, or corrections about it feel free to message or contact me about it. (If you can't tell, I really really feel horrible about the original mistake because it was such an unforgivable, offensive mess up. And again I apologize for it.)
> 
> Also very important: none of what is depicted reflects anything of Romani culture. NONE OF IT. Every single thing the character 'Papa' does and says, whether he frames it as Romani or not, is grooming and therefore completely irrelevant and unrelated to both the Romani peoples and their pluralistic culture. This is not my view or understanding of Romani people and culture. This is not derived from Romani people or culture. It is an abuser using verbal tools of framing and coercion to groom and abuse a child. I'm sure that's obvious but I just think it's important that I explicitly say it.
> 
> These notes are pretty lengthy, but I feel like they are kind of necessary as context to better understanding my relationship with this story and this final version of it, and why it has been such a long time coming. But anyway...you're about to read a 39,000+ word story about abuse and trauma -- if you are interested enough to try and read it all the way through, please make sure to take a step back and take a deep breath every now and again if you are feeling uncomfortable.
> 
> If listening to music (...on constant repeat...) while reading is your thing, know that I listened to [Final Fantasy 13's "Dust to Dust"](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y_Dgj83Q-50) on repeat for hours on end while writing (and years later, re-editing) this story.

Dick woke up and felt as though there was a fog in his head. “What,” he managed out before his throat seized up with a cough, sandpapery and dry. He swallowed, then blinked in attempt to rid himself of his fogginess and peered around. He was buried underneath blankets and had pretty much no clue where he was. Or recollection of how he got there.

He kept looking around, and gathered that this room was a normal bedroom. Not _his_ normal room but…normal enough of a bedroom.

“Hello.”

Dick’s eyes slid over to the man sitting across the room in a hardback chair, smiling and leaning forward. 

“Hi.” Dick returned carefully, attempting to feel out the atmosphere, mind working in overdrive trying to build strategies and theories against all the cottony fuzz blanketing his senses. Was he in some kind of medical ward? He certainly felt like he should be, achy all over. And impossibly woozy, too.

“Hello,” the man repeated, and Dick detected a light hint of a drawl, like the barest touch of a southern accent. It was familiar in how it was practically not there, only just-almost superimposed over his words – Dick’s training had covered this. It was the accent of someone who had been living someplace long enough to almost pick up the accent as their own (as if, Dick had always thought just short of snidely, the slurs and drawls rubbed off on people after awhile). Right, Dick thought, so this man wasn’t from around wherever this was but had been here awhile. And Dick knew there were a million other deductions he should have been building on from that, but his mind was _so_ rubbery and nonreactive…

The man smile grew the smallest bit, gentle and content and, what was that, a hint of triumphant? “Do you know who I am?”

Dick didn’t, no doubt about that. “Not really.”

“I’m Papa,” he said, voice soft. “And we are long lost family.”

Dick nearly snorted, but caught himself just in time. “Right,” he mumbled instead. “ _My_ father is dead.”

This so-called Papa folded his hands in his lap. “I’m not saying I am your biological father. But we are of the same People.”

Dick heard the emphasis on the letter p and was reminded of his mother taking him into her lap and telling him stories, and his father teaching him little words and phrases and – 

This time he did snort. “ _Right_. So I’m supposed to believe you just happen to be conveniently Romani after I wake up in your house after a suspiciously blank period of time in my memory?”

Papa raised an eyebrow at him. “It is rude to take that sort of tone with your elders, Dickie.”

“The name’s _Dick_ ,” he immediately grit out. Underneath the covers he wriggled his toes and fingers and took mental note of all the ways he could escape. There was a window on the far wall, and a door as well but Papa had himself situated between it and Dick. Window it was, once he wasn’t so…fuzzy and numb-ish. His limbs felt too heavy and he was completely off-balanced because of it.

“Would you like some water?” Papa asked sincerely. “You have to be dehydrated, it’s been a long day.”

“No – ”

Papa gestured to the glass of water sitting on a bedside table, despite Dick’s protest. “Dickie, I must insist. Papa does know best, after all.”

“ _No_.” Like he was going to trust this guy enough to accept a drink from him. “And like I said, it’s Dick.”

Papa stood slowly, smile degenerated into something more vaguely exasperated. “Oh dear. Your manners are – ah, it’s fine. I’ll teach you more about Romani customs and how to act. After all, it’s been _such a long time_ since you’ve had someone like Papa around, yes?”

Dick didn’t answer this time. He wasn’t sure what the game was, but he had an idea that playing along with it wasn’t a good plan. He eyed the window carefully, without moving his head at all, and examined the lock. It looked easy to pick, and better yet like it wasn’t locked at all.

A troubled sigh from the man drew a fraction of Dick’s attention back to him. “It’s very disrespectful to not answer Papa when he asks you a question. I am only trying to look after you.”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, this time for effect. He needed to get Papa out of the room to be able to leave. “ ‘m just, you know – disoriented…”

Papa smiled at him, apologetic and gentle once more, and nodded. “Oh _Dickie_. I’ll let you rest, then.”

Dick swallowed the instinct to correct him and nodded wordlessly instead, watching him leave and close the door behind him. The instant Papa’s footsteps faded far away enough, Dick was silently rolling out of bed and slipping to the window. A glance outside told Dick that he was out in something very close to the middle of nowhere. The land rolled on undisturbed for miles and miles and Dick? Well, he was completely Dick Grayson right now, no gadgets or utility belt, but he could handle having to get resourceful.

He quickly unlatched the window and, checking the drop height and deeming it survivable by his standards, climbed carefully onto the window sill and crouched on it, testing his balance. Two minutes, he promised himself. He was slowly gaining his bearings again, but the longest he’d wait to drop from this second story window was two minutes.

 

***

 

The empty acres stretched for seemingly forever. Dick was pretty sure he’d been walking for a while, an hour maybe, and there was no sign of a town or a neighborhood or anything. And, unfortunately, Papa had been right about the dehydration, though Dick didn’t regret rejecting the drink. But, regardless, he was feeling very weak and dizzy and there was this unbearable heat rising in waves from the earth itself. Here the summer months were oppressively hot with a scorching sun – wherever here was, it was very unlike Gotham and Happy Harbor and their mild New England summers.

What was going on, Dick wondered furiously. He remembered night patrol with Young Justice, he remembered going with Bruce to his mathlete club’s booster meeting for the field trip, he remembered going over Pascal’s triangle in class and later showing Conner how to expand binomials for fun and arguing about lolcats with Wally and drawing hearts on post-it-notes to stick on random surfaces with M’gann and doing hand-to-hand combat training with Artemis and learning new Atlantean meditation techniques from Kaldur and – where were the last few hours, what had he been doing and _whycouldn’the_ – 

He didn’t realize he was lying in the dirt until he gasped for breath and tasted the metallic dustiness of dirt coat his tongue. _I’m a little bit delirious_ , he thought faintly, and then he was gone.

 

***

 

When he woke, his lips were wet and his perception muted with that familiar fuzziness.

“Papa told you he would look after you,” Papa murmured lovingly, and Dick blinked through the darkness. The sun had set, and he was tucked under the sheets in the bed again.

“Running around in the heat like that…silly boy. But Papa’s got you, you’ll be fine.” Dick felt something cool press to his mouth and there was liquid there, flowing soothing and sweet over his tongue and down his throat.

“Ah,” Dick tried, spluttering a little on the remaining water left in his mouth. “You – ?”

“We are family, Dickie,” Papa crooned, setting the glass down with a clink. “You’re safe here. So safe, Dickie, silly boy.”

Dick felt Papa’s hand brush over his forehead and heard a whisper – something indistinct but – _familiar_. It was something Romani, Dick was sure of it, like something private and prayerful that Mom used to hum as Dick would fall asleep. And he couldn’t help but, but feel just a little safe in that.

 

***

 

Papa watched him eat breakfast like he was analyzing every swipe of his tongue and every shift of his jaw. “Do you like your breakfast, Dickie?”

Dick shrugged noncommittally, taking another bite of the biscuit instead of answering.

Papa grinned and reached over to ruffle his hair. Normally Dick would have ducked under such advances, but his reflexes were still lacking and he was preoccupied – he was already taking in as much as he could. (The house was only two stories, the kitchen was on the eastmost side of the floor plan, lined up with the wall of the house. The door led to a living room, which had a door to a dining room but also opened up to the front door and a set of stairs to the upstairs and…)

“Papa has to leave for work soon, and there are rules while I’m gone. You can go out, but you have to be home by curfew. Would you like to know when that is?”

Dick chewed slowly instead of answering. It was strange that Papa was letting him have so much freedom, especially after he attempted to escape once before. Dick was also finding it strange that Papa hadn’t reinforced any of the windows or exits, like he expected Dick to just stick around, like none of this was at all out of the ordinary. And, in all actuality, he had to admit that it really wasn’t completely out of the ordinary, not yet. But whatever, Dick thought gruffly, he’d just find his way back to where he belonged while Papa was out, he wasn’t dehydrated this time, he’d had food and water and now he was just waiting on an out…

Papa’s hand came down heavy and stern on his shoulder. “Papa _asked_ you a question. What is the appropriate response, Dickie?”

Dick blinked, a little surprised, “Oh.” He said, thinking back to the _it’s very disrespectful to not answer_ of yesterday and this morning’s new one of _you say please and thank you whenever possible when talking to elders_. He was waiting for his chance, he just had to play along. “Uh, please, yes, when’s curfew?”

Papa smiled at him, some sort of pride overflowing in his expression. “Seven thirty in the evening. The other rule is to be good, but I’m sure you will be. Other than that, Papa doesn’t mind what you do. Just be good.”

Dick nodded, only hesitating a little because Papa firmly squeezed his shoulder and he wasn’t sure what to make of that. “Okay. I’ll be good. Thank you.”

“Thank you, Papa,” he corrected lightly, still smiling, but straightened up without waiting for the answer and strode from the room.

Dick swallowed his words – for a split second he almost fixed his ‘mistake’ for Papa, for this southern man who was maybe Romani and promised to teach Dick how to embrace his old culture a little better. Promises of irreplaceable memories and experiences aside, Dick reminded himself, he didn’t own everything, or even anything, to this man.

He stayed still in the kitchen, waiting, only until he heard the click of the front door and that the hum of the engine outside was gone far down the road. Then he moved into action.

 

***

 

The sky went on forever, still. Dick wasn’t sure where he was, where Papa had him, but – it was a nowhere kind of somewhere. He had been walking and walking and yet there was nothing.

“Where are you nearest town or hint of civilization,” he muttered to himself grimly. It was nearly two pm, he had been walking for around four hours and nothing. It didn’t help that the sun was bright and disorienting – Dick already found himself often zoning out without the added effect of the glare across his vision making it harder to focus, and often he had to check and fix the direction he was heading in. Sometimes he even suddenly came to the realization that he was barely shuffling forward. _I have been trained for weeks exclusively on how to travel fast and efficiently through deserts under worse conditions_ , Dick thought ruefully, remembering Bialya specifically. _I can do this._

Dick checked his rations for what was going on the third time in the past ten minutes. He’d be fine for another two days, if he got into a pinch that demanded it, if he really had to: undergoing Batman’s mentorship came in handy for those sorts of predicaments. But he was becoming painfully aware, as he started with the realization that he had ambled to a stop while lost in his thoughts and the scent of the dry dusty air, that he couldn’t simply wander around in this kind of heat on that kind of gamble.

Maybe, Dick thought warily, maybe he’d keep scoping out the land over the next few days, stay with Papa until he had a clearer idea of where he was trying to get to. Papa wasn’t – he was… _nice_. Dick was learning some things and, well, Papa wasn’t about to turn around and attempt to kill him.

(Dick was pretty sure he wasn’t going to, at any rate. And if he did, even with muffled senses, Dick could take him in a fight, could outsmart and out trick him if his life depended on it.)

He checked his rations again, and then the time. He’d make a decision in an hour, he figured, steeling himself and hiking onward.

 

***

 

Dick thought of the chill of the Batcave and the feel of the exercise mats under his feet as he sparred against Bruce.

( _He heard the pickup truck rumbling down the dirt road long before he looked up to see it rolling to a stop in front of him. “Why, fancy seeing you this far from home this late. Isn’t it past your curfew?”_ )

Dick’s fingers curled around the fork and the weight of the cutlery wasn’t the same, this silverware was too light, not expensive and heirloom material and carefully polished each week.

( _“I think I want to go home,” Dick said, quietly, into the worn upholstery of his seat, head jostling with every bump as every mile he walked was undone. “I’m not_ that _interested in my cultural heritage.” _)__

__“Do you like dinner?” Papa asked lightly. Dick nodded and pushed the food around his plate instead of eating it._ _

__( _“That’s an ungrateful thing to say, silly boy.” Papa said, voice just a shade too solemn. “But I know you don’t mean it.”_ )_ _

__Maybe he was being drugged, maybe that was the problem here, maybe that was why he couldn’t find the strength within him to fight – to really fight –_ _

__( _He threw a punch across the car, frustrated with the denial of what he wanted, only to find his arm weak, his delivery sloppy and aim off. His attack was easily deflected, and then he found himself being one-armed pushed back into his seat. “Stop that Dickie. Be a good boy and sit there quietly. Papa already is being lenient about you disobeying curfew rules…”_ )_ _

__Dick wouldn’t eat. He’d cleanse his system, he’d been so stupid to eat to begin with. This would be fine, his head would clear up and he’d be able to think straight and then Dick would slip out of Papa’s grip like a snake or a shadow or something else intangible and figure out a way to contact Bruce or the League or his team._ _

__( _“Fine,_ thank you _, you happy?” Dick hissed, sarcasm biting in more ways than one. But Papa just laughed._ )_ _

__

__***_ _

__

__“Do you like the well?” Papa asked, when he found Dick leaning over the stone wall surrounding the well pump, like some sort of makeshift barrier. It only came up to Dick’s waist, and it was a good height for slumping against._ _

__“This water is fresh from the ground? Is this yours?” Dick asked._ _

__Papa’s eyes crinkled in amusement. “Yes. I pump the water from here and keep it in the fridge in the pitchers. Feel free to pump yourself a glass if you want. Papa doesn’t mind.”_ _

__“Huh.” Dick murmured, staring at the well from afar. Curiosity overtook him, and he climbed over the wall to study it closer. It looked just about ancient, but in working order._ _

__“I can show you how, right now,” Papa offered genially, rolling up his sleeves and sidling up next to Dick. “If you ask nicely.” Their elbows touched, just briefly, and the contact (Papa’s arm was dry and still cool from the air conditioning in the house, a huge contrast from his own sweat-sticky skin) made Dick shiver._ _

__Papa noticed, and smiled slyly. “Ah ah, naughty boy.”_ _

__“Wha – ” Dick was instantly confused by this remark. He – what? What had he done that was ‘naughty’? His mind raced to backtrack, but stumbled and failed him. His self-imposed fast had left him weak and agitated, and yet no clarity had moved in to overtake it. “What – ?”_ _

__Papa shook his head and reached for the pump. “Nothing Dickie. Here, you take the handle…like this…”_ _

__He showed Dick, then let it go. “You can try.”_ _

__Dick blinked, unsure, then slowly reached for the pump. If – if he wanted to make sure the water he drank wasn’t drugged – fresh from the ground was pure, _he’d_ be in control – _ _

__He felt Papa’s gaze sharp on him, reprimanding and realized his mistake. “Ah right, please?” Papa’s eyes softened and he nodded his permission. Ha, Dick thought grudgingly, control. _Ha_._ _

__“Such pretty fingers,” Papa sighed as his hands closed around the lever. “Now, tighten your grip a little, Dickie.”_ _

__Dick did. It was solid and heavy and real in his hands._ _

__“Move your hand.” Papa said, but Dick didn’t obey immediately this time. He was listening, thinking, analyzing: there was a weird strained quality to Papa’s voice now, something strange enough that it inspired defiance in Dick. Why should he listen to someone who couldn’t entirely control how they even _sounded_ – Batman could manipulate his voice in twelve different ways off the top of his head on a _bad_ day –_ _

__Papa became impatient. “Dickie, move your left hand. Yes, down towards the _base_ …” _ _

__But he wasn’t with Batman. Or with Bruce. And his training didn’t teach him to be stupid; it taught him how to survive, and that making waves without a plan or a full understanding of a situation or any bargaining power was needlessly stupid, was a step in the wrong direction for surviving. “Right.”_ _

__Papa reached over and layered his hands over Dick’s. He squeezed, fingers lacing slightly with Dick’s, and Dick felt a small shudder go through Papa’s whole body, that was how close their bodies were now. “And then,” Papa whispered into the hot air. “You pull.”_ _

__Dick swallowed, flexed his muscles and pulled down, together with Papa._ _

__“I love you Dickie,” Papa murmured, a shade of urgency in his voice. “You and I, we’re family. We are meant to be together, just like this. Perfect.” His chin was nearly tucked in the crook of Dick’s neck and his breath wafting over the sensitive skin there made it feel tender and vulnerable. His hand was warm and large and had just beginnings of dampness at the center of the palm. It swallowed Dick’s hand, layered over it completely, and it wasn’t so bad, just being cradled completely by the curve of Papa’s body behind him, protective, barely not touching him body to body. Dick heard Papa swallow in another breath, quick and shallow, and his thumb stroked softly across the web of skin stretched between Dick’s own thumb and index finger._ _

__“Perfect,” Papa repeated, just stroking over that webbing, faster and faster. His tone had changed quality again, but…it was an unfamiliar quality, one that made Dick suck in air himself, body trembling suddenly._ _

__Dick didn’t know, just _didn’t know_ what was happening. His mind dimly registered the sound of water spluttering from the pump onto the ground. “I – I – thank you – ?”_ _

__Papa sighed again, a hint of something distinctly Romani on the undertones of it, then began pulling away. “Good boy.” He laughed, softly, fingers untangling from Dick’s suddenly desperate grasp around the handle and, inadvertently, Papa’s hands. He gave Dick a final little clap on his back, and was gone into the house._ _

__“Right.” Dick said, quietly and really to no one in particular since he was alone again, leaning against the water well. He was flushed and panting and he couldn’t grasp why – too much sun and heat, he reasoned. “We’re family. We belong together. I’m _safe_.” He tried, still trembling all over. The words didn’t sit right on his tongue, but they weren’t entirely foreign anymore either._ _

__

__***_ _

__

__Abruptly Dick realized he was a little far gone, when he woke up in bed with Papa’s fingers on his forehead. He was conditioned to have hair breadth triggers, the creak of someone coming up the stairs, the click of a doorknob turning, the sound of someone breathing in the same room as him…these were appropriate things to wake up to._ _

__Maybe the fast was hurting him more than anything. He was running on empty and didn’t have the strength to do anything. He should – there could be some way to justify eating, maybe he wasn’t being drugged, maybe he was just sick or injured and Papa was – Papa had already had an ample amount of time to harm him and nothing was going on other than, than Papa babying him a little maybe, being a stickler about please and thank you but. But Dick was a little bit of smartass sometimes, he knew that and –_ _

__“Papa won’t nag,” Papa said quietly, longingly. “But you really should eat something for breakfast.”_ _

__“Ngh,” Dick muttered, heart stuttering because, huh, maybe Papa was just helping him. But, but he was conflicted because, well. He wouldn’t be eating because Papa told him to but because he was already thinking about it, thinking about how he could eat while Papa was at work and make sure there was nothing funny in it. But then it would also almost be like he was doing it because Papa asked and that wasn’t it but…but so what if it was? Or was what it seemed like, or…_ _

__Papa’s fingers lingered for only another second, and then he was turning away. “Maybe I’ll teach you something about your heritage, if you eat. After all you can’t learn if you aren’t well.”_ _

__He murmured one last thing as he shut the door behind him, and Dick caught the sounds of Romani – and it simmered, the sounds of the language used so casually and easily, at the very top of his memories, and Dick wondered –_ _

___“Ačhava tukje,” Dad said to Mom, as he left to go hook up their trailer’s water line, it was a new venue, a new place for opening night, and Dick looked up and smiled at Dad and at the soft mumbles that always meant he was leaving, but of course always meant he was coming back too –_ _ _

__Oh. Dick sucked in a deep breath. _Oh.__ _

__

__***_ _

__

__Dick, instead of going outside and spending an afternoon walking to nowhere, explored the house. He went through the refrigerator and every cabinet in the kitchen and pulled out all the food, raw and the pre-packaged, examining it all closely for tampering before putting it back carefully exactly where it came from. From what he could tell there was nothing extreme enough to be detected – which didn’t necessarily mean nothing was there. But what in the world could Papa, out in the middle of nowhere, pump food full of that was so sophisticated that it was that undetectable by the naked eye? It either couldn’t be too harmful or wasn’t there at all._ _

__He crept into Papa’s room, feeling both a familiar thrill and angry self-righteousness. Papa never said he wasn’t allowed in here. Papa had no say over whatever Dick did when he wasn’t around. He had no say in what Dick did even when he _was_._ _

__“Fuck Papa,” Dick said, somewhat gleefully, to himself. He felt silly after the words hit the air, though. Like some child trying out new curse words in quiet rebellion. And he was better than that._ _

__Papa’s room wasn’t too different from the room Dick was staying in. Bigger, of course, with two windows instead of one, facing southward. There was a little alcove room that led to a half bathroom. Other than that and the dresser and bed adorning the room, it was plain. Dick found it weird that there were no televisions or computers or even a phone in here. Or anywhere else in the house – he had checked. Dick knew of the Amish but…well, Papa was definitely not Amish. While Dick could excuse a southern Romani, a southern Amish Romani? No way. Plus, he had the truck._ _

__But then again, Dick realized as he pondered the vast empty land surrounding the house like an island at sea, maybe it was that Papa just liked his privacy. Maybe he was introverted and didn’t want technology that connected him to people when he didn’t have to be connected. It wasn’t ideal or a particularly safe lifestyle, but Dick of all people was not in a place to comment and criticize unsafe lifestyles. And Bruce, for one, would probably have been nearly just as introverted if it wouldn’t threaten his dual identities remaining separate._ _

__There was a sense of comfort in the ability to draw similarities between Papa and Bruce. Like additional proof that Papa wasn’t as bad as Dick had feared he’d be._ _

__He gave the room one last sweep with his eyes then decided resolutely to go down to the kitchen and pull out some food to eat. There was nothing wrong with Papa, there was –_ _

__There was nothing wrong with wanting to spend time with a man who rarely reached out to people. Not when he was reaching out to Dick with such fervor and desperation. Dick had read this situation wrong, he _was_ the one in control. The incident by the well had told Dick as much. Dick could still feel the way Papa’s hands wrapped around his, holding on like Dick was his all. _ _

__Dick was his all, and Dick could be considerate in this seat of power. He could afford it. He could make the effort to reach back, in his own small ways, starting with food._ _

__

__(When he ate dinner that night, Papa made no mention of Dick raising the fork to his mouth. He only smiled approvingly down at his own food, and Dick reveled in his victory.)_ _

__

__***_ _

__

__The next morning, Dick rolled out of bed with the intent of taking a shower. He could smell the dust on his skin, the earthy scent mixing with the scent of sweat._ _

__He peeked around the bedroom door and, seeing no sign of Papa out and about or occupying the room across the hall, he slipped out noiselessly and silently sprinted into the bathroom. He may have had enough faith in Papa when it came to food, but he wasn’t stupid enough to completely trust a still complete stranger. He wasn’t going to let Papa catch him unaware and defenseless: that was asking for trouble._ _

__Dick still felt weird, turning the showerhead on, though he knew Papa was at least a hallway and a room away. The door had no lock on it and Dick considered blocking the door, just in case – this was a null consideration though, as there was nothing movable with blocking capabilities in this room._ _

__While the water warmed up, he inspected the medicine cabinet above the sink, the only furniture in the room other than the toilet and bathtub. In it were only the essentials, no bottles filled with unknown medicines or suspicious syringes or anything dangerous. There was a bottle of generic brand aspirin, shaving cream, a razor, some deodorant sticks, a few additional bars of soap, and a bottle of light pink-tinted lotion. That being the only thing vaguely out of place to Dick, he snapped open the lotion and sniffed it, checking. Sure enough, it was rose scented, but it was still just lotion._ _

__Dick shut the medicine cabinet with a finalizing clack. He was now sure beyond a doubt now that he wasn’t being drugged. There were none of the proper tools or materials anywhere in the house for it, which did beg the question of what was wrong with him – was he really, actually sick? But all he could do was carefully step into the shower and close the curtain, welcoming the sense of small relief washing over him. He wasn’t about to let his guard down completely, but that was one less thing to worry about._ _

__He used the soap bar sitting on the soap ledge and tried to straighten out his thoughts as he soaped up. He had to figure out what had happened that led to him being here – maybe something tragic and Papa was trying to protect him by not telling him? Regardless, because Dick could handle tragedies, he had to figure out a way to coax it out of Papa. He had to know what was going on in the outside world, how he got here, then –_ _

__Dick stopped moving abruptly, at the sound of the doorknob turning. It clicked open and the creak of the door echoed menacingly throughout the tiny room. Dick changed his grip on the soap, ready to throw it in self defense if need be._ _

__The opportunity never came, though. The creaking stopped and, other than cool air from the hall, nothing and no one came in. Dick stayed frozen, waiting, listening, for two more minutes. He only hesitantly peered around the curtain when he heard noises echoing up from the kitchen below. The door had been pushed in, open wide and all the way, but that was it._ _

__Dick rinsed off and shut down the water quickly, then reached out and grabbed his clothes from where they were sitting, untouched as well, on the closed toilet seat. He dressed behind the shower curtain, then stepped out._ _

__His descent down the stairs was just as careful, but when he reached the kitchen Papa was only setting out Dick’s portion of breakfast, Papa’s plates already dirtied and stacked in the kitchen sink._ _

__“Did you – I was in the shower just now,” Dick managed to say, a little stupidly even to his own ears._ _

__“Mm, I know,” Papa answered glibly. “You smell very nice.”_ _

__“No, that’s not it,” Dick shook his head and crossed his arms. “You opened the door while I was showering, right?”_ _

__Papa shrugged and gestured towards the table. “Yes. Would you like to eat?”_ _

__Dick took a step towards him, though if it was supposed to be menacing or simply persuasive, Dick wasn’t sure. All he knew was that it was important that Papa explained. “Why? I didn’t know what to expect – ”_ _

__Papa laughed and took a step forward as well. “What does it matter? Come eat, Dickie, you smell so nice.”_ _

__Dick swallowed thickly, moving on. Something in his stomach was unsettled. Something in him was going off, so subtly that he knew to observe it like it was a siren, Dick knew better than to ignore those kinds of hunches. “Fine, that’s stupid, sure. But, ah, if you don’t mind me asking why am I…” Dick gestured around vaguely. “Here? And – and why can’t I remember – I mean, my memory is practically intact otherwise, so I shouldn’t – ”_ _

__“Don’t worry,” Papa said, like that was an answer. “I’m taking care of you, right? We’ll figure something out.”_ _

__Dick felt like the world was closing in on him – the way Papa answered was troublesome. Was further unsettling. “Did something happen? Did I get…hurt?” Maybe that theory that he was injured wasn’t so wrong, maybe he had a head injury and the trauma –_ _

__He remembered an airport. That was it, vague (the plastic chairs and walking through customs) and unhelpful (because how else would he get in so obviously not-New England as Dick Grayson?)._ _

__Dick snapped back to attention when Papa slowly began stepping forward again, one foot in front of another. “Don’t worry. Worrying isn’t going to help.”_ _

__That wasn’t explicitly a denial or an affirmation, but it sure sounded like the latter. And that explanation really answered why he felt so not like himself. But… “So is Bruce, I don’t know, in on this? I’m still not understanding – ”_ _

__And then Papa cut him off with something completely irrelevant. “That’s my soap. You smell like my soap. You smell like me.”_ _

__Dick’s arms fell slowly to his sides, lost for words that wouldn’t be ignored and ploughed over, it was all breathing and staring and Papa coming closer and closer. “I – yeah, we went over that I took a shower, what’s the big deal – ” Was this like a psychiatrist trick, distraction, aversion, whenever he stepped too close towards whatever it was that was too – what, too traumatic?_ _

__Papa’s arms wrapped around him and he pulled Dick into his chest. “We are so close now. More than I ever imagined we’d be.” Dick could hear awe in Papa’s voice, and was confused._ _

__“It’s only soap,” he mumbled into Papa’s shirt, feeling a little embarrassed. But he might have understood. Without his parents, who did Dick have to share this side of himself with, share this silent and invisible bond with? And how long had Papa been on his own?_ _

__Papa laughed again, disbelief evident at, apparently, Dick just existing in the kitchen. He pulled Dick back, and one of his hands cupped itself under Dick’s chin, tilting it upward. “I’m about to leave,” Papa said lightly. “And this is how we part.”_ _

__He removed his hand and, after a second, leaned in very briefly and pecked a chaste, dry kiss to Dick’s lips. By the time Dick registered the contact, Papa had drawn away, was back by the table, sipping a final swallow of juice from his glass._ _

__Stunned, Dick touched his fingers to his lips, as if the feel of his finger pads would capture the kiss there and prove that it had actually happened. It didn’t, and Dick could only sit down in the available chair at the table, confused, as Papa casually went about his business, leaving for the foyer to slip on and lace up his shoes._ _

__“When I get back, we’ll greet like that too,” Papa called into the kitchen when he opened the front door to leave. “There’s the lesson I promised for eating.”_ _

__It didn’t occur to Dick to correct him, that he didn’t need a reward for eating because he didn’t do it for Papa’s sake, that he didn’t need to be kissed, until after the engine sounded outside and the truck was rolling down the road._ _

__

__***_ _

__

__Dick attempted meditation after lunch again, for what was now the fourth day in a row. It was supposed to help him find his inner peace, to search for himself and discover hidden truths, despite potential brain trauma…but it wasn’t working. Dick sighed and slumped forward over his criss-crossed legs, stretching his lower back. He couldn’t focus right for meditation, he couldn’t –_ _

__The floor was hardwood, he noticed suddenly, the heady smell of oak (was that oak?) filling his nostrils and –_ _

__The door clicked open and Dick turned his head to watch the doorway, cheek still pressed to the cool floor of the living room. It was Papa._ _

__“What are you doing here?” Dick asked, curious of the change in the usual schedule. Papa, in fact, had on a cowboy hat, work boots, and garden gloves. A definite change from the usual. “Don’t you have work right now, still?”_ _

__Papa adjusted his gloves cautiously, eyes focused on them. “Ah ah, Dickie. What kind of greeting is that?”_ _

__Dick shrugged and turned his face back onto the floor. “’unno.” He mumbled. He had begun to find it in him to force casualness into the situation, because it was so _routine_ – how Papa always left for work in the morning and Dick was left to amuse himself and then Papa would return in the evening and they’d settle in for the night, Papa murmuring his stories and his little words of supposed wisdom and Dick winning this barely present power struggle each step of the way. _ _

__Dick had never been one for formalities and predictability, and by now he was bored. There was this routine, there was a set way this all went, and in that set way there was a distinct lack of proactivity. This was a waiting game that just kept going on and on with no end in sight and was he doing the right thing here?_ _

__He felt safe. He also felt like he was giving up, and he had never been someone to pick the surrender option. He of course understood the concept of self preservation, but it was hard to correctly identify if he was really doing _that_ …or instead inflicting self-harm by standing still and seeing where the pieces fell. There were a lot of unanswered things going on here that Papa was trying to protect him from, and Papa wasn’t getting it, that Dick didn’t need protection, that he really just needed to know all what happened – _ _

__(He kept drawing bad conclusions, bad nightmares, of Bruce really hurt, of Bruce killed, their line of work was never a merciful one and then Papa of course would logically decide that Dick had lost enough already, didn’t need to worry and mourn one more guardian lost and then ohgod ohgod, no way, _Bruce was fine_ – )_ _

__The thump of Papa’s booted feet crossing the threshold didn’t register in Dick’s mind until he felt the rough cloth of the glove running over his scalp. Papa stroked his head, twice gently with his gloved fingers carefully combing through Dick’s hair, before he lightly cradled the back of Dick’s head in both hands and carefully lifted and turned his head so that he was facing Papa, one cheek once again pressed against the floor instead of his entire face._ _

__“What was that?” Papa asked, almost sweetly, and he laughed as Dick simply scrunched up his nose instead of answering. He leaned in for his kiss, quick and by now familiar, the slight chapped quality of Papa’s lips as they pressed against his. Papa laughed again as Dick shook his head after they parted to indicate that what he had said wasn’t important. “Well, what do we say?”_ _

__Dick began to sit up, mind refocused and negative emotions distilled and displaced to the corner of his mind (a nifty trick – not nearly as long lastingly effective and healthy as good meditation or actually _dealing_ with those emotions, but these were desperate times). His anxieties set aside for now, Dick was now intrigued with Papa’s work boots and gloves and cowboy hat – “Thank you Papa,” he remembered to mention offhandedly – because Papa couldn’t be about to plant a garden: the soil was in no condition for that and the weather wouldn’t allow anything to survive. “Seriously, what are you doing home so early?”_ _

__Papa ruffled his hair again and turned around to go back out the door, only saying over his shoulder, “Such a good boy.”_ _

__Dick stood and followed Papa out the door, slightly annoyed at being brushed off so easily. Outside, Papa went to the pickup bed and started pulling a large bag off it._ _

__“What are you doing?” Dick asked again, peering around Papa and squinting at the bag. It had a label and Dick could make out that the black writing on it were directions: _unlock well cap, which should be dug out a minimum of 12 inches above ground surface_ … There was also a shovel laying on the bed._ _

__Papa smothered a laugh under a tight lipped smile, carefully putting the bag down on the ground, propped up against the truck’s back tire. He took off one glove while turning towards Dick, and then took Dick’s chin between his index finger and thumb, softly caressing the dip beneath his lower lip. “Well water has to be tested for pH levels and contaminants and then managed properly so it’s safe,” Papa said, smile still in place. “That’s what this is for, to keep the water safe to drink.”_ _

__“Oh,” Dick said. “That makes sense.” The skin under Papa’s thumb whorls felt weird, almost surreal, out of body, from the repetition of the stroking._ _

__“You can help me if you’d like,” Papa said. “There are no secrets between you and I, Dickie. I have an extra shovel in the shed.” His smile widened, less tight though still not showing teeth, and he dropped his hand from Dick’s face to refit the glove on. (And Dick knew there was a shovel in the shed, he’d already been in there before, snooping around. There were the usual toolbox instruments in there like shovels and hammers and stray planks of wood, old towels for car washing, the fusebox, and an old stained wooden chest with a broken lid filled with a few tattered quilts, stored out there in wait for the seasonal temperature drop. That’s right, there were no secrets between the two of them, not from where Dick was standing.)_ _

__Dick kept his eyes trained on Papa’s fingers flexing in the gloves, strangely mesmerized by the appeal of doing something productive, by the thought of going out back and digging around in the earth, liberally dispelling the smell of dirt in the air. “Sure,” he muttered. He’d love to help do some hard work. He needed the distraction._ _

__When it was all said and done, the amount of time he had spent here, inactive, was evident in the dull burn of his muscles as he helped lift the bag to pour its powdery contents into the opened well cap. He would be sore tomorrow, sore from an easy lower back exercise. How long was the real question; for how long exactly had he been _just_ Dick Grayson, boy who had to give up acrobatics and gymnastics because that life was behind him?_ _

__(too long – )_ _

__“Thank you for your help,” Papa said, coddling, patting Dick’s dusty cheek and kissing him as thanks, and all Dick felt was suddenly smothered in his own skin._ _

__

__***_ _

__

__Dick laid out in the middle of the road, in front of the house. He was staring at the blue of the sky, bored. He had already done basic tumbling up and down the road, to try and keep limber, but the endless days of being Dick had left him rusty, out of touch. Bruce would –_ _

__Dick sucked in a quick breath to ward off the twisting pang of loneliness, of homesickness, low and sharp in his gut. Dick wasn’t really into acrobatics anymore, while Robin was the antithesis of that. Antithesis of nearly everything Dick was. He’d always been discouraged from creating similarities between his identities, to prevent those similarities giving him away to others and to make the task of keeping the two separate an easy task of compartmentalizing. But here, this time…_ _

__Dick rolled over on his side, sighing – and then was distracted when that ended up with him getting dirt up his nose. He tried to snort it out, ended up only stirring more dirt up, and laughed when he felt it settle on his upper lip._ _

__Then the wind blew, a sudden hard gale, blowing up a wave of dusty earth all around Dick. He closed his eyes as it stuck stubbornly to his skin, minerals scratching a little as it settled on his face. The wind ruffled his bangs as it died down, which tickled the bridge and tip of his nose. His hair was getting shaggy and soon he’d have to ask Papa about going to town and getting it cut._ _

__( – that night, Papa made no reply to Dick asking about barbershops in town, about going soon to get a cut – he held Dick’s cheek when they kissed, short and warm and sort of nice – and Papa’s lip cracked a little when he smiled afterwards, so dry and so characteristically Papa, chapped lips and silent pleasure at Dick saying the simplest things. The hand was still there for a second’s linger and – )_ _

__They’d also have to talk about clothes, because by now Dick’s staple clothing was stiff with dirt that escaped his attempts of washing in the tub, and Papa had only provided pajamas in the bedside night table in the room Dick was staying in. So then Papa would have to take Dick’s clothes to the laundromat or something in town, because Papa didn’t have a washing machine or a scrub board or anything other than body soap and a tub._ _

__( – and Dick found himself unconsciously tilting his head slightly into that lingering palm. When he caught himself, Papa was in the midst of pulling it away and there was no chance to rectify that little mistake, that slip up of him being lulled into – )_ _

__It was a little weird, Dick thought amidst all these checklists, that he had come to rely on Papa like this. He’d never before been the kind of person to be dependent – for heaven’s sake, Alfred sometimes only knew about issues Dick was having at school or with friends because he was horrifically terrific at reading people, and Bruce – Batman – both had suffered through and dealt with numerous instances of Dick and Robin acting completely and rebelliously independently._ _

__Dick’s own short back of laughter startled him, as it echoed up into the endless blue sky._ _


	2. Interlude a

**interlude a.**  
-

 

Bruce kept his hands folded, very neatly, very in command, in his lap.

“I’m truly sorry, Mr. Wayne,” the teacher – Mr. Daniel Patterson – said, looking deeply troubled. Bruce could dissect that in an instant and see that he was worried and anxious, could surmise that more than sorry he was afraid this would cost him his job.

(And if Bruce found out that Dick going missing had gone down even the slightest bit differently from what Patterson was claiming, then he would see to it that his fear was actualized.)

“You can apologize again and again Mr. Patterson,” Bruce said, coldly pleasant. “But I’m afraid that won’t locate Richard, will it?”

A bead of sweat trickled slowly down Patterson’s temple, though he gave an apologetic smile. “I – I am aware. Have you been down to the airport, have you talked to them about – ”

“I have seen the available security tapes, yes. I’ve discussed possibilities with the police. I’ve _covered my bases_.” There was no longer subtly in Bruce’s tone, he knew that the threats and anger were obvious in how they dripped from his each and every word. “Maybe you should do the same?”

Patterson floundered on his words for a moment. “I – yes, I – truly do apologize for – ”

Bruce stood without letting him finish. “Yes, your incompetency aside, I plan to invest as much as I possibly can – money, resources, _time_ – to make sure Richard comes back to us as safe and sound as possible. So as this is a waste of my aforementioned valuable time, good day Mr. Patterson.”

He turned around and stalked from the room, reining in his fury. He had work to do, and needed to be cool and calculating to do it. There were the tapes to study and people to call and background checks to run.


	3. Chapter 3

“Is this another one of those cultural things?” Dick asked, then was startled when he realized he didn’t know if he meant his words to be inquisitive or sarcastic.

Papa ran his fingers through Dick’s hair experimentally, then gathered some too long strands and lined them up with the blade of the scissors. “No, I just like to take care of you.”

“Oh,” Dick mumbled, squirming a little on the stool. “I don’t really see why you couldn’t just take me with you to town and go to a barber.”

Papa clicked his tongue disapprovingly and ran his fingers along Dick’s fade on the back of his neck. “Gratitude, Dickie? ‘Please can you explain Papa’ would be nice.”

Dick rolled his eyes but did deflate. “Sorry. It’s not that I don’t get it, I mean, yeah, thank you for always wanting to do everything and the world for me. It’s just that at the same time I also _don’t get it_.”

There was a lengthy pause, filled with nothing but Papa running one hand through all of Dick’s hair, comparing the length all over, while the other hand stayed exploring the back of his neck. The pause grew and grew and finally Dick attempted to break it with a sighed out, “Please, Papa. Explain.”

Dick heard Papa breathe deliberately and slowly out of his nose, as if he was gathering his calm to properly explain. “It’s when you really love someone…” 

Dick shivered; Papa had leaned down and in to inspect how even the line of his cut was on the back of his neck, and Papa’s words were brushes of air over his skin. 

“You want to do these things for them. Keep them safe. Keep them close and protected.”

Dick laughed, weakly though because his heart was picking up speed and his fingers were curling on the edges of his seat and, for an instant, he was reminded of the incident by the well and the confused, weird excitement that had coursed through his body then. “It’s not like the barbers are going to try and slice my throat or take me away from you or something.”

Papa pressed onward, leaned closer so that Dick could nearly make out the shapes of the words as they left Papa’s mouth. “It’s just how Papa loves Dickie…and how Dickie loves Papa, right?”

Dick swallowed. There was a knot in his throat – and Papa’s lips pressed very carefully to the back of his neck. “I guess…?” Dick leaned forward a little, because this was not – this was different and – there was the brief warm, soft wetness of Papa’s tongue dotting against the topmost ridge of Dick’s spine. “Papa – ” 

Papa leaned away and casually wiped his hand over the wet patch of skin. “Just a nick,” he explained. “You’re all done.”

As Papa stepped away to wipe off the scissors and sweep up the floor, Dick tilted his head to see how his bangs would fall. “Thank you,” he said softly, then realized that he’d already said that earlier.

 

***

 

The morning that Papa left after breakfast only to return relatively soon, before Dick even got around to eating lunch, he brought a book with him to the kitchen table.

Dick was sort of annoyed with Papa’s sudden appearance – which he knew was vaguely nonsensical because it wasn’t like Dick was even _doing_ anything – but only because he had already figured out Papa’s normal schedule and now it was like Papa was throwing all that time and analysis out the window. (And just because Papa was harmless didn’t mean Dick wasn’t wary of surprises. The Joker could be harmless too, only sick jokes and reckless goading and unbridled insanity, when he didn’t have the upper hand of surprise at his disposal.) “Is it Sunday or something?” Dick’s tone was ridging right in the inbetween of mocking and earnest. “Do you have the day off?”

“Right on the nose!” Papa joked, tapping his nose in demonstration as he settled into his chair. “What have you been doing with yourself this morning?”

Dick shrugged and sat as well, sandwich he’d just made for lunch in hand. “Slept, mostly. I’m bored.”

“Yes, you’ve seemed restless lately. I noticed.” At that, Papa offered the novel across the table. “And I know you’re smart, Dickie, that you need to keep your mind occupied to be happy. So I ran into town and got this for you.”

Dick set down his food and took the hardback book into his hands, examining the cover closely. _The Stranger_ , the title read. “Isn’t this a French classic or – ?” Dick began to ask, looking up. He stopped when he saw that Papa had stood up, and was now carefully leaning over the table.

Papa’s hands curved around his cheeks, and, as Papa closed in, Dick thought, _oh he wants his thank you now, not my charming chattiness_.

But his thoughts stuttered to a stop when – when it wasn’t _dry_ – well, it was for one moment and then – Papa’s mouth was open, just open and pressed to Dick’s mouth, teeth resting gently against his skin, arcing over the tip of his nose because Papa’s mouth was open so _wide_ – and Dick shivered because there was Papa’s breath, mingling with his and it was so _wet_ and _warm_ – 

When Dick pulled away from the kiss, wet faced and bewildered, Papa just laughed, no explanation. “Enjoy your book,” he said instead.

“…was that a joke?” Dick was uncertain what to make of it, felt a tiny stirring of maybe dread, or some other faraway feeling, deep in his chest. His face felt taut and itchy with embarrassment and refreshed paranoia, and the wooden grain of the table under his forearms was uncomfortably warm from his body heat. “What…was that supposed to – ?”

Papa tapped a playful finger to Dick’s nose, still chuckling. “So silly, _of course_. Now eat your sandwich, I’m sure you’re hungry.”

Oh. Dick attempted a small smile, and even though it came out a little shaky, he figured – 

Yeah. A joke.

 

***

 

The book turned out to be interesting. Dick was certain he’d finish it in no time, it was more a novella than anything, but it had a lot to think about in it and he savored taking his time with it. It was better than laying in the dirt and contemplating the sky or digging through the shed for something to entertain himself with. Or sleeping. He’d been doing way too much sleeping lately.

“Reading again?” Papa asked when he came in to find Dick again laying on the couch in the living room, book in hand. Dick lowered it so the binding wouldn’t get in the way and accepted his kiss obligingly. It was open-mouth-wet again, like a running inside joke between them (sometimes dry, sometimes wet, but they always parted with a laugh, no harm no foul).

“Silly silly boy,” Papa murmured affectionately, patting his cheek before completely pulling away. “I might have to get you another soon, hm?”

Dick felt his face heat up a little because, well. The admiration in Papa’s voice was blinding. “It’s interesting,” Dick informed him, aiming for stoic but voice betraying him with a lilt of something soft and genuine and appreciative. “Nihilism. Existentialism. Philosophy is almost as exciting as math sometimes, when they’re twisted enough. You have to logic them both out, you know, step by step.”

Papa hummed as he headed for the kitchen. “Well, put it away for dinner. You know we have rules.”

He did know. And over dinner, when Papa jokingly fed him mashed potatoes from his fork, Dick laughed and looked back down at his own plate with a muted smile and realized that, shockingly enough, he was enjoying himself. He was happy to be here, in this moment of normal dinner times and normal rules and constant… _doting_. And he wasn’t sure if that was any semblance of okay anymore.

 

***

 

Dick woke, head feeling heavy and pounding and body on fire. “’m sick, I think,” he mumbled when Papa came in to see why he wasn’t at breakfast. “Feel funny ‘nd hot…” His stomach twisted and the room spun when he attempted to sit up a little.

Papa rushed to the bedside and crouched to caress Dick’s cheek. “You are warm,” Papa said quietly, like he was thinking. “I’ll bring up some water…and some fruit? Would you like fruit?”

Dick snorted and attempted to bury his face in his pillow. He stopped and unburied his face when he realized it was only making him hotter. “If ’s cold, I don’t care…not really hungry, actually.”

Papa hummed thoughtfully, anxiety seeping in the normally calm noise, and then he stood and was gone in an instant. In the subsequent silence, Dick noticed his breathing was audibly slightly labored. He listened to the soft huffs of himself breathing, then could hear through the walls and from the echoes up the stairs the sounds of Papa shuffling around in the kitchen. His chest was tight, but not so much that Dick worried about his lungs or an impending threat of him not being able to breathe at all. There was just discomfort and a little light headedness.

Papa returned with a glass of water and a bowl of assorted fruit that he placed on the nightstand. “They’re both cold right now, so you should eat and drink soon. But don’t make lunch, don’t strain yourself. I’ll be back as early as I can and make you special soup, alright? Don’t worry about lunch.”

Dick groaned and peered blearily up at Papa. “Got it. Not a problem.”

Papa sighed and leaned down, pecking Dick’s cheek with a little, worried kiss. “Get some rest after you eat.” He whispered, pulling away.

“Thank you,” Dick whispered back.

 

***

 

That night Papa spoon fed him soup as he laid propped up in bed.

“Did you read today?” Papa asked him. Dick swallowed a mouthful of soup carefully before he could answer.

“A little,” he said, coughing on the a few last drops of broth left on the back of his tongue. “I felt better in the afternoon, so I went downstairs and read. I ate a sandwich too, I was really hungry when I woke up – ”

Papa stopped moving for half a second, so completely still that Dick noticed and stopped too, and then he was looking at Dick with something in his eyes very similar to the eyes of someone who had been betrayed, disappointed. “You ate?”

Dick nodded slowly, eyeing the soup bowl in Papa’s lap. “Yes?”

“I told you not to.”

Dick shrugged, movement sluggish because he sort of felt as though…as though if he moved too fast, Papa would snap out of his stillness into something incredibly… _something_. “I know. I just told you though, I got hungry. I felt better.”

“Oh Dickie,” Papa said, tone just, just very _sad_. “I told you not to, though.”

Dick didn’t see the issue, he’d been hungry and didn’t know when Papa would return – Papa on the other hand sighed, silently picked up the spoon again and guided it to Dick’s mouth for a spoonful of soup. The sadness was deafening to Dick, like he disappointed Papa when it was so easy not to. All he had to do was _listen_ , he thought, all he had to do was be good. And he really thought he had been, but…

“Sorry,” Dick offered hopefully, after he swallowed. “Please understand, I didn’t realize…I didn’t know you meant it as a rule. I thought it was a suggestion.”

Papa nodded, eyes still dripping with his disappointment, as he stirred the bowl slowly. “It’s fine Dickie. I just…my suggestions should be clearer, stronger, I suppose?”

Dick shook his head, desperate to sort this out, to explain this right to Papa and make everything go back to normal, where Papa was happy and proud of the smallest things Dick did and Dick just continued to control him with how amazing he was, continued to be the kind king of this castle. “No, you’re fine. Just. I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.”

Papa stared at him. He then set the bowl down on the table and crossed his hands in his lap. “How about tomorrow? Or the day after? What if I just suggested that you don’t eat lunch then? Would you do it? Or would I have to _order you_ , like you’re a slave and I’m your master?” Papa’s voice had taken a turn for devastated. Dick was sitting up completely straight, eyes stricken. Papa sounded a little on the edge of tears, and his expression was furrowed with frustration.

“No, no!” Dick insisted. “Papa, please – ” 

“I don’t want to order you around!” Papa yelled, plowing over Dick’s words. “Why can’t you just listen to me like a good boy, why can’t we just be _friends_ and _close_ , and why can’t you just listen to my suggestions like I listen to yours? If you asked me for another book I’d get you one, if you asked me to eat ice cream for breakfast I’d let you, if you asked me why I love you I’d tell it’s you because we’re Family and that’s how we live, we love our Family more than anything else because it’s _all we have_ – ”

Papa was hunched over in his chair with his hands clutched to his chest and he was raving and stuck in the past, speaking from and to somewhere unseen and intangible to Dick. Dick had had been there before, going on and on, emotions both a twisting brutal whirlwind blowing out of control and a concentrated core of pain squeezing his insides to nothingness. He’d been there and knew how it felt, unable to stop until outside forces handled it carefully and right, and he was going to figure out how to do just that with Papa. 

Dick tried not to panic, since Papa was already freaking out, and flung himself at Papa, arms going round Papa’s neck as he balanced himself in Papa’s lap and clung-hugged the man tightly.

“Papa,” he said, trying to be convincing and loud enough to be heard over the fuss Papa was making without shouting as well. “We have each other, it’s fine, I didn’t mean it like that.”

Papa’s breathing began evening out, and he moved his arms from between them to hug Dick back. “Right right,” he muttered. “Of course. I have you and you have me and they can kill everyone we love and there’ll always be Family somewhere who can help you hold on.”

Dick suddenly didn’t trust himself to speak (circus, colors and lights and crowds and – deafening thuds as their bodies hit the ground – yet here he was in a tight embrace of someone just like him), so just hummed a wordless agreement, voice strained by held back tears.

 

***

 

When Dick didn’t eat lunch two days in a row, Papa bought him another book. He presented it to Dick while they were sitting out on the porch, Papa balancing a bowl of ice cream in the other hand. 

“ _The Grapes of Wrath_?” Dick read carefully, weighing the book in his hands. It was much longer than the first book he’d read, and of course much heavier. “Thank you. Is it good?”

Papa made a noncommittal noise, mainly because his mouth was filled with ice cream. He offered the spoon to Dick, who took a bite of ice cream without hesitation. It was vanilla.

“Taste good?” Papa asked, eyes crinkled with his smile as he reached over and wiped the edge of Dick’s mouth with his thumb.

Dick nodded and cradled his new gift in his arms. There was a nice breeze this evening, and he breathed it in deeply as Papa patted his knee in indication for Dick to come over and sit down on it.

With a shrug, Dick did just that, and thought suddenly, surprisingly, of Bruce. “You know,” Dick said lightly, leaning back into Papa’s hand supporting him. “Back when I was still kind of little, when I would get really upset, Bruce would let me sit on his knee like this too.”

Papa’s hand on his back rubbed in leisurely circles, but his words came out a little tight, like he almost choked on them. “Shhh, none of that.”

Dick blinked, frowned, tried to twist around to look at Papa. “What do you – ?” His words cut off into a surprised yelp, at the coldness of the bowl that Papa sat in his lap.

“I think it’s best,” Papa explained, scooping up more ice cream and pressing it to Dick’s mouth. “To not talk about things like that anymore. It’s a little ungrateful otherwise. Like saying Papa isn’t taking good care of you.”

Dick tried to push the spoon away, managed to, but only after getting melted ice cream streaked along his mouth and cheek. “That’s not what I’m saying, only that this _reminds me_ – ”

“And you’re doing such a good job otherwise, making sure we always eat together, listening to me, saying please and thank you…” Papa was talking like he hadn’t heard Dick. The spoon clanked as he set it back in the bowl. “Let’s not ruin it, hm, Dickie?”

Dick thought of Papa’s breakdown, and the memory of it nearly made his insides twist with displeasure. Never again, he never wanted to cause someone to get that hysterical over something he could easily prevent.

“Yeah no problem, please, forget I said it.” Dick said quietly, only the barest attempt at sarcasm in it, as Papa took his chin between his thumb and forefinger – a familiar feeling – and tilted his head just so. Dick let out a puff of air, a sound caught between an exhale of surprise and a laugh, as Papa licked up the stripe of ice cream along his cheek.

“Silly boy,” Papa said, all affection again, and any trace of twisting among his organs was soothed.

 

***

 

Dick didn’t mind when Papa kept asking him to not eat at lunch while he was away (“If you fast for the meals we have together, it makes them more memorable. That is the mindset that got our People through hard times.”), or how Papa leaned over the table a lot to share with Dick the food off his plate. What he did mind was when the first lock showed up.

Technically it was the second lock, because the first morning Dick woke up and noticed a lock on the plates’ cabinet, he looked around and saw another lock he hadn’t noticed because it was on one of the cabinets over the stove. Dick didn’t say anything until the third day, when a third lock appeared overnight on the glassware cabinet.

“Why are you putting child locks on stuff?” He asked over breakfast, after Papa leaned over the table to feed Dick some scrambled eggs. “I thought you trusted me.”

Papa was still on his side of the table, now cutting up Dick’s sausage for him. “It’s not that I don’t trust you Dickie, it’s that I understand you.”

Dick chewed slowly on his eggs, not following. He felt weird, like he’d been all spilled out and then spilled back in his body kind of wrong. Was it confusion, he wondered, or the building oppressive and humid heat that was lately only getting worse with each passing day?

“I understand,” Papa continued. “What it’s like to be a teenage boy. You have impulses and it’s hard to control yourself. I’m helping you, Dickie.”

Dick swallowed, hard and hurriedly. “What, no, I haven’t – I’ve been good.”

Papa hummed and stabbed a cut up piece of sausage to offer to Dick. “I know. But I know you’ll get the urge to be naughty – it’s _okay_ , you can’t help it – and we don’t want that.”

Dick didn’t agree, but he silently accepted the meat and chewed while in contemplation of what he’d do today. Probably start his new book.

 

***

 

That urge did come, but only after everything in the kitchen had been locked up for several days. Something about the challenge of the locks rubbed him the wrong way every time he was in the room. Watching Papa lock up after breakfast, after carefully – _tenderly_ , Dick thought furiously – setting out a single glass in case Dick needed water, made him want to rise to the occasion, made him want to try and break in the cabinets because it was stupid that Papa felt like he had to do all this based on supposition.

And fuzzily and somewhere in the back of his mind, Dick acknowledged the irony because he was only proving Papa right but – but there was old and now unfamiliar anger towards Papa bubbling up again because how dare he. How dare he treat Dick like was a simple child who didn’t know how to break into locked things. His insides went funny when he thought of Papa, disappointed and assuming things about Dick, and Dick couldn’t figure out if it was a good or a bad funny. It was a kind of funny that made his eyes cross and his head feel light and that was perhaps the kind of funny that made Dick say, “Fuck Papa,” and maybe mean it.

(Maybe.)

He went into the shed for tools, a hammer and pliers preferably because the point was that he wanted Papa to know he broke in. He went for the toolbox, noticing that not only was the shed was more spacious than before, the toolbox had been moved. Looking around he realized the toolbox was now where the quilts and their chest had been, which in turn were nowhere to be seen. That was understandable, since the real summer heat had barely started.

It was humid today, Dick realized as he dug through the box for what he wanted. The heavy wetness of the air pressed down his lungs with the promise of rain.

He found the hammer and pliers easily enough and pulled them out ferociously. He was going to ruthlessly tear apart the lock on the fridge and leave the remains in the middle of the kitchen floor, proof of his deed. Because Papa was not the boss of him. And Papa couldn’t put locks on things and just expect Dick to take it lying down, because Dick _had_ self-control, just as much as Dick was master to his own self. Dick wasn’t a slave to his impulses, not like Papa had been when he was Dick’s age. Or even how Papa was now.

And Dick would rub that in Papa’s face, as punishment for underestimating him.

 

***

 

Papa was not pleased. Dick heard Papa’s calls for him cut off abruptly and knew that he’d seen the mess in the kitchen. Dick swallowed and tried to squash the ball of tightly wound nervousness sitting low in his stomach, gripping his knees as he sat fake-casually on the edge of his bed upstairs.

Papa entered his room with little sound other than the quiet creak of the floor. “Dickie.” Was all he said. All he needed to say.

“Yes?”

“Ungrateful. Impulsive. I _told you_.” Papa’s words were wrecked with a regretful kind of sadness. It sounded a lot like resignation. Like disappointment.

Something in him, something nearly muted underneath Papa’s words and Dick’s knowledge that Papa wouldn’t really hurt him, was screaming _run_. Dick angled himself a little, ready to jump up and – 

(And what?)

Papa sighed, walking briskly to the edge of the bed and sitting down as well. Dick eyed him warily. He did not regret his choice, Dick told himself. He _didn’t_. He needed to see how this played out. He _wanted_ to see.

“Papa tried so hard. And you’ll be a good boy in the end, Dickie. We’ll get there.” He looked at Dick with all the sympathy in the world and Dick had to realize that the lightness in his chest, it was similar to hope, to believing.

“Papa has to punish you, though,” Papa continued. “You’ve made me have to. So, Dickie,” he put his hand over Dick’s on the bed softly, and held on. “Please, come here.”

Dick was already in his grip, so it was only a matter of scooting a little closer. “I – ” He swallowed against the lump in his throat, right, he had expected something, that was the _point_. “Yes Papa?”

Papa’s other hand came up to brush against Dick’s cheek. “I’m sorry,” he said, frowning, then Dick found Papa strong arming him by the waist to drape him over Papa’s knees.

“Wha – ” Dick tried, only to cut off into a gasping yelp as Papa’s hand came into sharp contact with his rear. _I’m getting spanked_ , Dick realized suddenly with the second quick hit, which was followed by a third.

“You can’t,” Papa said over the staccato of the slaps of his palm landing against the material of Dick’s pants. “Disobey me, be _rude_.” Dick wasn’t near tears or anything, he’d definitely suffered worse in his lifetime, but it was humiliating that, that he was bent over Papa’s knees getting _spanked_ – and it was uncomfortable and – “And expect no punishment. I’m sorry, but it’s for your own good, it’s your own fault…”

The angle and jolting from each successive spank made Dick choke a little on his spit, and his cheeks were hot from both the blood rushing to his head and the sheer embarrassment of it all. There was the pressure of gravity pressing at the backs of his eyes, almost inspiring tears along with frustration, with the pain of his pride writhing underneath the experience. “I’m sorry,” he relented, because this spanking was dragging on forever and it wasn’t like Dick didn’t know what Papa wanted, it wasn’t like giving him that to make him stop was extremely _hard_ or anything. “Please, I won’t – ”

Papa’s hand stopped midair, Dick could hear it stop cutting through the air, then after a pause finished its descent much less sharply. His hand fell to rest on Dick’s stinging rear, as if he was relieved, and laid there for a moment. He sighed and began to gather Dick up in his arms, turning him over and right side up again.

“See why I worry? You can be a good boy, I promise, I’ll help you.” Papa murmured cradling Dick in his arms. He buried his face in Dick’s hair, still murmuring unintelligibly, and Dick turned his face into Papa’s chest because he didn’t want to _see_.

(Because he was crying. And he was stronger than that, why was he crying – )

And when Papa carried Dick to his bed in the master suite, still murmuring apologetically, Dick didn’t protest. He fell asleep with his face buried in Papa’s chest, hiccupping on the last of his tears.

 

***

 

Papa stayed home from work the next morning, letting Dick sleep in late before waking him with the promise of a big breakfast waiting for him downstairs. 

“We both had a rough night,” Papa said, gesturing at the breakfast table kindly, its surface covered in plates of food, then pulled out a chair and sat down. “Come over here.”

Dick approached, slowly and wearily. He was still embarrassed about the previous night. He hadn’t cried himself to sleep in Bruce’s bed since he was ten.

He gasped when Papa picked him up and plopped him down in his lap. “Papa?”

Papa laughed, breath tickling the nape of his neck. “This is Papa’s apology. Do you like it?” He straightened the both of them out, so they were sitting the right way in the chair, facing the table. Dick tensed as he balanced himself amongst the movement, a reflex though Papa’s arm was still wrapped loosely around his middle. 

“Thank you,” Dick said, though he wasn’t really even sure what to make of it. Papa had stayed home from work for him. That was special, he supposed, even if making breakfast wasn’t. He jolted, only a little out of surprise, when Papa pressed the tip of his nose to the back of his neck.

“Really?” Papa’s tongue darted out to swipe quick and playful at Dick’s skin. “You really mean that?”

Dick could see that, across the kitchen, the lock had been cleaned up and replaced. That odd funny feeling tingled, low in his stomach, yet he still didn’t know what to make of it. So he simply answered, “Of course.”

Papa hummed happily, and leaned forward a little bit more. His chin came to rest on Dick’s shoulder and he reached forward for the utensils and a plate, his left arm still looped around Dick, the fingers of that hand gently perched on the ridge of his hip. “That’s great, it’s no good if you don’t like it, if you can’t be grateful for it.”

“Yeah, of course,” Dick repeated, watching Papa’s hand as he took a fork and speared some hashbrown. “Why wouldn’t I like it? Like you said, we had a rough night.”

The fork found its way to Dick’s mouth, offering the bit of hashbrown carefully, the steam floating off the food and warming the skin of his lips. It tickled, the way the steam felt, and Dick accepted the bite, mumbling, “Thank you,” around the food in his mouth.

“Right,” Papa said, guiding his fork back to the plate for another forkful. Dick had just managed to swallow when another bite was waiting for him. “Of course, Dickie’s a thankful boy.” He lightly kissed Dick’s cheek as Dick swallowed, and yet another forkful of food was offered.


	4. Interlude b

**interlude b.**  
-

 

Bruce wished that there were traces of a children slavery or children prostitution ring involved. As horrific the effects on Dick, it would be so much easier to track, so much more apparent to figure out, a single clue leading to a whole unraveling of traceable evidence. And this, whatever was going on behind the scenes of this kidnapping-disappearance act, was not apparent or obvious or easy. It wasn’t like Bruce was wishing for the situation to begin with, but by now it was like hoping for the lesser of evils. Because the longer Dick was missing, the higher the risks, the higher the chance that he was dead with each passing second.

But Bruce had to push that all aside, because wishing for evidence to pop up, hoping and praying for cases to be different – that didn’t solve anything. He had to work with what he had and figure out what had happened.

Right now all he had was an airport that didn’t have helpful video footage, a rancher uncle who had suspicious debt, and a bad teacher chaperone that linchpinned it all together. He had to move, he had to talk to this uncle and get a lead. Because while Bruce didn’t have motives he had percentages of opportunities, he had the experiences of how predators placed themselves in positions of power, of close proximity to their prey.

It wasn’t like Bruce was hoping Dick’s teacher was the man behind everything. And it wasn’t like he _was_ : Bruce had checked the man’s school attendance post-kidnapping – he’d been reporting in to work as usual; his apartment complex – there were no signs of young boys being regularly tied up and drugged there; and even had wiretapped his phones, cell, work, and home – none of which were raking in anything.

But the problem was, it was too convenient. Everything falling into place the way it did, the way Dick just happened to get kidnapped in an airport in the home state of Daniel Patterson. Daniel Patterson, who had been a bad enough chaperone to magically lose a kid, who had an uncle – his mother’s brother – with a phenomenal debt that hadn’t capsized his ranch despite not ever being fully resolved.

Bruce quickly suited up, snapping on his kevlar and cowl, ready to go intimidate said uncle. He knew Alfred had already put a suitcase full of neatly pressed clothes and face prosthetics in the jet, for when he was done and had to go pay the bank a visit as not-Bruce Wayne to verify information about this debt. Alfred was coping best he could over Dick’s going missing, which resulted in him being even more prepared, even more quietly insightful and ingeniously sharp-eyed than usual.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred said, preparing statements and counterclaims by reading newspapers and tabloids to brace for the fresh wave of media frenzy surrounding the whole ordeal. “I’d hate to take even a moment of your focus away from finding Master Richard as soon as possible, but you do realize that you’ll have to deal with his teammates soon, correct? Master Wallace, for one, drops by as often as he can, worried sick.”

Bruce didn’t look up from checking his utility belt compartments. “I’ve got Black Canary and Red Tornado handling that. I’ll get involved once Dick’s back with us and we have to deal with the aftermath. I’m sure Wally – and Artemis – have shared with the others the connection between Robin and Dick Grayson both going missing.”

And it hung over both their heads, the fact that they were purposely focusing on ‘when’s and not ‘if’s, on the biggest problem in the ‘aftermath’ being dealing with the fact that Dick’s secret identity had been compromised among people they trusted. Because they had to keep going.


	5. Chapter 5

When the weather became overwhelmingly humid and finally gave in to rain, Dick sat on the porch steps and watched the lightning arc across the sky with something akin to amazed fervor. Papa had told him this morning over breakfast, as the storm had begun overnight and was gradually picking up, to not go outside.

(“It’s dangerous,” Papa said, patting Dick’s thigh kindly, arm snug around his waist. “You could fall and get hurt, get struck by lightning…don’t go out today.” Dick only leaned back against Papa’s chest, chewing thoughtfully on the bite of pancake fed to him.)

But Dick was no stranger to bad thunderstorms and being in them. He grew up in a traveling circus, there had always been an ‘unless the situation is absolutely dire, the show must go on’ mentality bred in him. And then with Bruce, with Batman, certainly that had only been groomed and honed to more pragmatic and strategic lengths. The memories had a haziness to their edges, seeming like forever ago, and that was an incredibly sad thought. But they weren’t a forever ago, Dick reminded himself firmly. That wasn’t some – other life or – 

There was a roll of thunder and a tremor of thrill rocked through Dick and, with it, his nostalgia and sudden sadness melted away. It was almost unwilling, like he couldn’t – help it – but soon they too had eternities’ worth of distance away from Dick, because here and now he could reclaim a little of what he’d lost in those memories. He unfolded his knees from hugged up against his chest, stood and leaned against the porch banister, wriggling his bare toes against the cool wood of the topmost porch step. Holding his hand out from under the roofing, he reveled in the feel of the arrhythmic beat of rain on his palm. The soil was releasing an enticing wet earth smell and the air was no longer oppressive and muggy as it had been over the past week.

Dick made the decision that he was going out in that rain, kneeling down to roll up the cuffs of his pants. It was as if the world outside was inviting him and, honestly, Dick wasn’t afraid.

(Of thunder and lighting and disobeying and disappointment and spankings. He really wasn’t.)

 

***

 

It rained all day, though the torrential downpour died down into a light drizzling by the time evening set in. Dick trekked back to the house, having gone exploring while playing in the rain and mud, and saw the truck in the driveway. And, well, that was fine, he felt no apprehension over that, it wasn’t like he’d been trying to sneak back in before Papa came home. He went out playing in the rain and he was alive and fine. Papa had to understand that, and with it that Dick was –

(…was what? Capable of taking care of himself, of acting out, of being in control too?)

When Dick came in from outside, it was to the sight of Papa reading a newspaper on the couch.

Dick stood straight and tall and proud, though his skin and clothes were thoroughly muddied and wet. “Welcome home.” 

Papa looked up, folding his paper neatly and putting it down. “When I came home and you weren’t here…I figured. I drew you a hot bath. It should still be warm.”

Dick squinted at Papa, trying to decipher what was going on in the man’s head. But Papa only stood and headed up the stairs, and Dick only waited a few seconds before following after him.

Upstairs, Papa was adding more water to the tub, one hand submerged in the water to check the temperature. Dick watched him from the doorway curiously, carefully.

“Get undressed and get in,” Papa said, not turning around from fiddling with the shower knobs. “Before the mud dries and we have to scrape you clean.”

There was a hint of humor in Papa’s words, and it made Dick smile as he did what he was told. He left the clothes a muddy pile and treaded lightly across the bathroom to the tub. He went around Papa and slipped in the water, staring at his knees, little pale domes peeking out of the water as he seated himself.

Papa turned around and began to walk away and Dick blurted out, “Thank you. For…you know. This.”

The door clicking closed was what brought Dick’s head jerking up, eyes snapping away from his knees to Papa. Papa closed the door and turned around, walking back to the tub.

Dick frowned. “I thought we don’t shut doors? It’s ungrateful and it’s secretive and we share everything.”

Papa quirked a smile and sat on the closed toilet seat, his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands. “Of course. But we’re both in here and the steam is escaping. Papa doesn’t want Dickie catching a cold, right? Not after Dickie put himself at so much risk of catching one already, hm?”

Dick pressed his knees together and then to his chest, suddenly contrite. “I’m sorry, Papa. It was just – I’m sorry.”

Papa sighed, long and hard and weary, but he picked up the soap bar from the shower shelving and leaned forward without hesitation. “I know, I know. Oh Dickie, you’re _filthy_.” He dipped the soap in the water and began to scrub the mud, already crusting, from his arms.

Dick didn’t know how to react to this. He hadn’t been bathed in as long as he could remember. He – it was strange, to let Papa run the soap over his chest, his hand working up the suds, then with cupped hands scoop up water to wash away the soap. He did the same with Dick’s hair, fingers massaging his scalp and raking out dried mud. Dick didn’t mind when Papa did his feet and calves (“Left leg please…now right,” and Dick would unbend the knee and wave each leg in the air for Papa to take into his hands and hold still to sud up). But when Papa reached into the water following the line of his leg, Dick flushed as he started to work on his thighs with the bar of soap. He was thirteen, he knew how to clean himself and…

He gasped and drew back when the bar of soap touched between his legs, very definitely not at the insides of his thighs anymore. “P-papa,” Dick tried, berating himself for the stutter because this wasn’t a big deal, it was just embarrassing and he just had to tell Papa that. “I – not there, I can do that myself.”

Papa blinked as if startled, but withdrew and handed Dick the soap. “Right,” he chuckled. “Of course. Here you are.”

Dick looked up at Papa, waiting for him to leave. Papa turned his body so he was no longer facing the tub but rather the perpendicular wall. However, he made no move towards leaving, and suddenly the steam in the room was too hot, suddenly Dick just wanted to melt and disappear in the water.

“Dickie,” Papa said, a warning in his voice. “If you don’t hurry, Papa will do it for you. The water’s cooling, and you’ll get sick again.”

He ducked in on himself and tried to work up the nerve, steel himself. All he had to do was reach between his legs and clean himself. Pretend he was in the locker room showers at school or at the gym. Convince himself it didn’t matter because it was only Papa.

Dick moved slowly, hoped the water was obscuring enough, but each splash made as he reached was unnerving.

Papa perhaps sensed this and he began to talk, still looking at the wall. “You know Papa is trying, Dickie. And Papa loves you. But you keep…”

He paused and Dick paused and then Papa sighed and they both continued. “You’re forcing me here. Dickie, you’re bringing this on yourself. Papa doesn’t want to have to punish you, Papa _loves you_.”

Dick, shrunk in on himself, placed the soap on the edge of the tub, attempting to be placating. “I’m done.”

“I hope so,” Papa said, voice faraway like he was daydreaming. He looked over to the tub and glanced at the soap. “Good boy.”

He said nothing else and a silence began to grow, so Dick splashed a little in the water to fill the void with something, not sure where Papa wanted to go from here. “I _am_ sorry, I really do understand why I shouldn’t have gone and disobeyed you.”

Papa’s face twisted impossibly, all with hurt and affection and regret. He reached and pulled Dick out of the tub, and Dick slipped against him, dripping wet and still just a little sudsy. “And I’m sorry,” Papa whispered, voice deep and dark and rich. “But I must.”

Dick twisted his wrist in Papa’s grip, gasped when he found himself draped over Papa’s knee again, shivered as the cool air hit his wet skin.

“I – ” Dick tried, squirming in Papa’s grasp.

Papa put a hand on Dick’s back, right between his shoulder blades, to hold him in place. “Dickie…”

And Dick thought, for maybe a moment that – 

He bit the inside of his cheek when the first stinging slap came, the sensation even more vibrant and smarting with skin against skin, with how he was wet and extraordinarily aware of how the air breezed over him. 

Papa’s breath hitched, and then came the second spank. Dick’s hands curled into fists gripping to Papa’s pant leg and he reminded himself that he’d been through worse before.

Unlike the first time, Papa didn’t say anything. The silence, other than wet slaps, hung intimidatingly in the room’s atmosphere. Dick suddenly became aware of the fact that his breath audibly caught short each time Papa’s hand made contact with his rear. The realization made him feel vulnerable and silly and small and he hid his face against Papa’s leg, despite how that only really proved that he _was_.

Eventually Papa stopped, and Dick felt like his backside was hot and raw. “Sorry,” Dick repeated, his words muffled in Papa’s pant leg.

“I know,” Papa replied softly, apologetically, hand soothing and caressing over the smarting skin. “You’ve made me…and now look how red you are here…” 

When Dick choked on a sob (it was _stupid_ that he only went out in the rain for – for attention and he got it and now what?), Papa gathered him right side up and in his arms and cooed comforting words and half-finished Romani prayers.

“You’re fine, you’re fine, Dickie’s just a little silly sometimes, it’s okay, Papa forgives you.” He murmured and Dick just stayed curled in his lap, crying like he was a little kid again and like that was okay.

 

***

 

Papa gave Dick an old shirt to wear, which was so large on Dick that the fact that he had no clean underwear was not as much of a problem as Dick had feared. The hem fell to the tops of his kneecaps, though the drawback of the largeness was that the neckline cut low and open enough that it fell too loose on his shoulders and well below his collarbones.

He went downstairs to the kitchen for water from the tap, thirst setting in after the steamy bathroom and crying. Dick could hear Papa leisurely tagging after him, but Dick couldn’t find it in himself to look back at him. He – he’d cried again. He’d been spanked _again_. It was still heart wrenchingly humiliating, and Dick realized his face was hot with embarrassment, not lingering steam.

Once at the sink, Dick saw that there was no glass set out for drinking. “Papa,” he asked dutifully. “Can I have a cup?”

Papa sighed, staying in place a few steps behind Dick. “No Dickie. I – you still have to be punished. There won’t be dinner either.”

Dick spun around, horrified. “But I let you spank me.”

A tiny little muscle twitched in Papa’s jaw, but he tried smiling pleasantly at Dick anyway. “What you did was dangerous. You have to do what Papa tells you, what Papa _lets you_ , because it’s for your safety, your own good. You could have _died_ , so Papa has to make sure this lesson sticks.”

Dick could see the logic, he could hear the words and understand, but something in him rejected it. And though something else in him whispered that it did him no good to rebel (he knew that already, he proved that already), he didn’t want to take heed.

“I could die of dehydration, too.” Dick said heatedly. “I – ”

Papa crossed his arms, looking foreboding and impossibly huge and Dick thought of Papa upset and hissing rants, of Papa’s giant hands grabbing him and flipping him over to be spanked and something else entirely in him just. Just said to stop.

“I won’t give you a cup, but there still is a facet. You can still drink from the facet, I’ll allow that.”

And it was true. Papa was right and Dick was wrong and Dick had disobeyed even though he had promised he wouldn’t. He’d thought he’d been in control and he’d only been spiraling out of it like some boastful, stupid child.

(The realization _stung_. Papa was only trying to help. Had always, only been trying to help.)

Dick felt his cheeks throbbing with the amount of blood surging in them, from his blush and the withering of pride, both colossal. He turned around slowly and switched on the tap, tilting his face forward, tongue darting out to catch the water. But that was too slow, not enough water was making it into his mouth, so he angled his head more and leaned so he could pool the water directly in his mouth. It also pooled and spilled over his cheeks and chin but – 

Papa suddenly grabbed Dick’s shoulders and spun him around, crushing their mouths together. “Papa could be worse,” he murmured apologetically, their lips still pressed wetly to one another. “Papa is being lenient, promise.”

“Yeah,” Dick said, but gasped, because Papa’s tongue had snuck out to lap up the drops of water still on Dick’s skin, and took the opportunity of Dick replying to slip it in and trace the edge of Dick’s teeth. Dick’s own tongue retreated further back, and Papa tentatively touched his to the roof of Dick’s mouth, running over the ridges of his hard palate. When Dick gagged – only a little and softly as Papa’s tongue, wet and huge, found the beginnings of his soft palate – Papa pulled back.

“Tomorrow, Papa will feed you breakfast, promise.” He said, fingers gripping incredibly hard at Dick through the night shirt. “Papa will take your clothes to the cleaners too, Dickie.”

Dick wiped gingerly at the edges of his mouth, which felt a little swollen and raw now from how hard Papa’s had been pressed to it, to get rid of the spit left behind. “Thank you.”

 

***

 

Papa only set his side of the table in the morning, and Dick worried, briefly, if he was still on punishment.

But then Papa patted his lap and Dick recognized it as his signal that he wanted Dick to sit there. _Of course_ he thought suddenly, _Papa promised_. He padded across the floor to Papa’s chair, kissed him his good morning and thanks for keeping his promise, and climbed onto Papa’s legs.

With only one set of utensils, Papa alternated between bringing the food to Dick’s mouth and to his own. “You’re grateful, right Dickie?” Papa asked. “That we are so close? That we have no secrets between us?”

Dick leaned back on Papa’s chest and tilted his head back to look up at him, trying to figure out what he was getting at. It was weird though, from that angle Papa looked like a giant, especially as he reached over Dick’s head for his glass of orange juice and then bent his arm to bring the glass to his mouth. Dick realized that Papa’s clean scent, from taking a shower this morning, was enveloping him and that thought, along with the hugeness of everything that was Papa at the moment, was dizzying.

“Right,” Dick answered finally. He was unsteady and felt very shaken now, an abrupt realization about himself. “I – I’m so grateful to you. Thank you.”

Papa pressed juice-wet lips to the side of Dick’s throat and stayed there for several long seconds. Dick could feel his heartbeat pumping steadily through his jugular, hyperaware of it because of the pressure, the curve of Papa’s open mouthed smile.

It was after breakfast and after Papa left for work that Dick realized there was no glass again. There’d been bacon at breakfast though, and the salt and the twang of orange juice on Papa’s tongue (he had pressed it to Dick’s lips questioningly, nicely asking for permission inside during the goodbye kiss, and Dick – Dick was no good at saying no to Papa, it made his insides twist and his head hurt) weighed heavy at the back of his throat. He turned on the tap and drank like he had the night before, and when he was finished he went into the living room to read _The Grapes of Wrath_.

 

***

 

Dick dreamt of hazes of colors and late night drives through empty, quiet streets and fresh and cool New England breezes.

( _“Let’s bathe together tonight,” Papa said after dinner. “It’s been a long day, I need to unwind. It’ll be fun, Dickie.”_ )

He also dreamt of flying and twisting in gravity-defying ways and the smell of cotton candy and popcorn and happiness in the air. Of hot spotlights and adrenaline.

( _Dick felt a little weird, shedding the shirt and waiting, shivering slightly from the cool air, for Papa to finish undressing. The bathtub was filled already with warm water. “When will my clothes be ready?” Dick asked. “Maybe we should buy me others so…so I have enough.” Papa laughed._ )

He woke in tears and with his stomach clenching and it was, it was the same kind of lonely homesickness he’d felt before. But ‘before’ was after Tony Zucco, and after Bruce Wayne showed him much more kindness than a billionaire stranger should have had for a circus orphan.

( _“Dickie is so silly,” he said, then walked over to the tub and eased himself in. “Ahhh. Perfect. Come on then, Dickie.” Dick hesitated, staring long and hard at the tub like it was a puzzle. “Where…where should I…?” He gestured helplessly at the water and the small size of the tub. “There’s no room.”_ )

And that kind of homesickness was scary because – because there was no cure. There was no home to go back to get rid of the sickness.

( _Papa laughed again, beckoning Dick over. “Come on,” he urged, patting the water between his legs. “I’ll help you wash your hair and your back. Right here, come on.”_ )

But that wasn’t right, Dick told himself, standing in front of the window looking out at the road, open in hope of a familiar cool breeze filtering in, despite the renewed humid heat of the night air reminding him no, this wasn’t New England. Because Bruce wasn’t gone forever, not like Mom and Dad. Because out of his two old homes, he still had one to go back to.

( _Dick lowered himself carefully into the water as he was told. When he sat, Papa’s hands found their way to Dick’s shoulders and kneaded slowly, carefully. “Relax,” Papa reassured him. “Papa’s got you.”_ )

But then, when? And where was Bruce and…Papa had him. Papa had him and Papa was here, so why wasn’t Bruce?

That homesickness made Dick want to the point of feeling nauseous. It built up and up and up and then he couldn’t breathe.

“I have a secret,” he whispered to Papa over dinner one night. “And we don’t have secrets, right? So…so, what it is is that I think I want to go home. I miss everything from before.”

Papa froze, not speaking for a while. When he finally gathered himself, his first words were, “Aren’t you happy here, Dickie?” And he reached around Dick, hand resting lightly on his chest.

The gentleness of Papa’s voice very nearly made Dick want to cry. He felt like a horrible person – Papa was taking such good care of him, after all, and – 

“Yes, I. Just. It’s hot here all the time and there’s no school, no Gotham city, and Bruce? He means a lot to me. He’s done a lot for me. This just isn’t home.”

Papa’s hand began to move in soothing circles. That Dick was aware that Papa was trying to calm him down made everything knot up even worse inside him. His breath was coming in definite hitches and tears seemed inevitable. 

“Would you like to take a bath? Would that help?” Papa asked carefully.

“No,” Dick said, voice tight and quivering, he felt like he was a five year old on the verge of throwing a tantrum and he was sliding out of control, that spilled inside out right side in all wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong feeling coming back. “I just – I’m sorry – but I – ”

Papa lifted Dick up off his lap and placed him on his own feet on the floor. Dick swayed were he stood, tried to swallow a hiccup, tried to put his head on straight, and Papa maneuvered until he was kneeled in front of Dick, at eye level with him.

“Papa,” he said steadily, firmly. “Is the one here with Dickie. Papa is the one who loves and is taking care of Dickie. _Papa_ has done a lot for you. Papa is happy you didn’t keep this secret, how you feel…but Papa is here and this is home. This home has no secrets, no ungratefulness, and so much love. Why would you want to leave?”

His hands had found their way to Dick’s waist, which was good because Dick was swaying and hiccupping even more and he was trying not to cry and he didn’t even know what to think, or feel, or – “I – don’t – but – it’s just – ” 

Papa leaned in and kissed Dick softly, once, then twice. “Dickie,” he cooed softly. “ _It’s fine_. You can cry.”

Dick shook his head and _didn’t_ , because he’d already done that too much here. “Thank you,” he managed out, still swaying and still horribly homesick, but something in him had been soothed, had been forced to lie down and take a rest.

 

***

 

“If we have no secrets…” Papa said one evening, setting aside his newspaper casually. “Then why should we hide anything from each other?”

Dick, having just settled against Papa’s chest to get ready to read his book (he was nearly finished, and Papa had promised another one when he was), looked up, blinking. “We’re not.”

Papa picked the novel out from Dick’s hands and placed in the cushion beside them. Dick waited as, in slow motion, he also picked up Dick off his lap and placed him on his feet in front of him. Then Papa turned him around, and said, “Like you said, we have no secrets. Take your clothes off.”

As if affected by the slow, sincere certainty Papa had moved with, it took a moment for the words to sink in. “…Huh…?”

Papa took Dick’s hands into his own and held them to his lips. “If we don’t have any secrets, then there’s no point in clothes. Take them off. I’ll take mine off too. It’s like _hiding_ from each other. We don’t need that.”

Dick felt himself flush, at the order and at how Papa pressed feather-light kisses to each of his fingers. “I – ”

“Dickie, we’ve bathed together.”

Dick shifted his weight on his feet. “I know that. Do you mean…always? Is this an always thing?”

“It doesn’t matter. Dickie, don’t make me have to punish you. Not for secrets, not for disobeying. I thought we were over that. It _hurts_ Papa.”

The thought of getting spanked flustered Dick. He didn’t want to undergo that mortifying experience again. With Papa, he felt like he was always overspilling with emotions, and the bad ones squeezed his heart like a vice. “We are. I…okay, yeah. I…just. _Okay_.”

He’d since gotten his clothes back from the cleaners and so had something to shed other than an oversized shirt. Somehow, the fact that it took longer than an instant made the act of undressing seem more…ritualistic. When he finished and was naked, his clothing a pile on the floor, Dick felt oddly like he was being judged and hunched in on himself a little. “There,” he offered meekly, completely missing his aim for a tone that was matter of fact. “No secrets.”

Papa grinned, then pulled his own shirt over his head while seated. He stood while unbuckling his pants and suddenly Dick’s face was inflamed, as he realized he was watching Papa undress. He averted his eyes as Papa laughed. “Naughty boy,” he murmured affectionately, not at all deterred.

When both of their clothes were piled on the floor, Dick realized, with horror, that Papa, now reseated, expected him to climb back on his lap.

“I,” Dick mumbled, training his eyes on the floor. “Papa, I’m sorry, I – can’t.”

“Hm?” A rustling noise told Dick, without looking up, that Papa had been reached for his paper again. “Oh…oh, Dickie is shy? Is Dickie thinking about Papa’s…?” He trailed off suggestively, then laughed. “What a silly, naughty boy!”

“It’s not like that,” he denied quickly. His skin felt tight and ill-fitting, there was much more of a breeze here in the living room than in the bathroom. It was weird to be out in the open with nothing on. And Papa expected him to just…

“That’s fine,” Papa told him reassuringly. “Here, sit by my feet instead, that’s fine.”

Dick folded his legs under him and did as he was told. It was odd, to sit in such a closed off and sort of feminine way, but it felt vulgar almost, to sit cross-legged or any other way with his legs spread out. It was like leaving himself open and vulnerable, when he didn’t have anything on.

He reached for his book, but Papa lightly swatted his hand away. “Here,” he handed Dick a part of his paper. “It’s the comics. Do you like that kind of thing?”

Dick used to say no to adults when they offered him the funny papers. They were juvenile and too quickly read and he really hadn’t the disposable time for many things, so if he was going to read anything it was going to be something that consisted of more substance than a few panels and a cheap laugh. But now it would have been rude to reject what had been offered, so he took them without a word.

 

***

 

“I don’t know,” Dick murmured as Papa washed his hair. “How I feel about being naked around the house.”

Papa’s fingers scratched over Dick’s scalp lazily. “But no one sees you but me.”

“Yeah, I know.” Dick said, still quietly, while he traced his finger along the line of Papa’s shin. His legs were very hairy.

Papa laughed, huffing near-silent breaths. “That tickles. Turn around, so I can rinse your hair without getting soap in your eyes.”

Dick obliged, turning to face Papa and drawing his knees under him in a sort of kneeling position. Papa ran his thumb over Dick’s cheekbone before suggesting, “You should close your eyes.”

Dick did, and puffed carefully small breaths through his mouth as sudsy water streamed over his face. He heard Papa groan softly, then felt fingers curl under his chin and the careful press of lips to his cheek.

“Oh Dickie,” Papa mumbled, and Dick felt lips against the side of his neck and a hand combing through his hair.

“Can I open my eyes now?” He asked carefully, squirming as the hand that had been under his chin moved in slow motion to the plane of his chest. He felt hot again, with that strange stirring low in his stomach, and it made breathing a little difficult.

Papa hummed, moving the hand in his hair to the back of his neck, pulling him in closer so abruptly that Dick almost lost balance and pitched forward. “Maybe if you say please.” Papa teased, voice throaty and rumbling.

“Please can I open my eyes?”

Papa’s mouth was open against Dick’s shoulder, tongue swirling on the skin and Dick kind of felt like he might really fall over. There was a wet smack as Papa pulled back long enough to say, “Of course, Dickie.”

He opened his eyes, working to focus them, when Papa brushed his fingers along Dick’s nipple on his way to wrap his arm around Dick’s torso. “Silly,” he said, tongue sliding its way along the line of Dick’s shoulder to the dip of his collar bone, and Dick gasped and finally did slip forward, completely unbalanced.

His heart was beating so fast it felt like it was about to burst from his chest, Dick thought hazily, nose pushed right into the curve of Papa’s neck, one hand braced against Papa’s thigh and the other on his own knee. “Sorry,” Dick stuttered, just concentrating on breathing and on straightening out his thoughts. Papa’s arm was still circled around him, though the hand that had been cupping the back of his neck had slipped and was now in the very center of his back. All the places where their skin was touching was nearly on fire, and Dick more heard the tiny, just barely audible noise he made than realized he’d made it. It sounded a lot like a whimper, and Dick didn’t know why.

“I think,” came Papa’s voice from somewhere above him. “It’s time we got out and dried off. I have a treat for you, after all.”

Dick nodded wordlessly, pulling away as Papa peeled off him. He stood and stepped out the bath, leaving Papa to unplug and drain the tub. Papa got out as well, and Dick waited patiently for Papa to finish drying himself so he could move on to toweling Dick off. Papa had once said he liked to do it because it was one of those things he wanted to handle to show he could take care of Dick. And Dick didn’t mind too much, when Papa so heavily swathed him in the fuzzy towel that all he could see was white.

Unexpectedly, Papa scooped Dick up in his arms while he was wrapped tight in the towel. Dick fidgeted for a bit, only because his arms were trapped and he was a little afraid he might helplessly tumble to the floor like that. Papa let him fidget, leaning Dick against his chest carefully as he used one hand to open the medicine cabinet. As Dick managed to work his arms out, Papa pulled out a little light pink bottle off the shelf. Dick recognized it as the lotion he’d found before.

“Hold this,” Papa said, handing it to Dick so he could manage closing the cabinet and opening the bathroom door.

Dick held on, to both the lotion and to Papa, not very sure what this treat was. Papa carried Dick to his room and shut the door behind them.

When Papa laid him down on the giant bed, Dick sucked his breath in, because he remembered that, underneath the towel, he was naked. That Papa wanted him to always be naked. And Dick didn’t understand, because it was embarrassing but Papa wasn’t doing it as punishment and…it was just hard. To make this okay.

“Be still, Dickie, be a good boy.” Papa whispered to him, unwrapping the towel. Dick felt like a present, lying there waiting. He flinched when the cool air hit his whole body, knees clenching together.

“It’s fine,” Papa told him gently. The snap of the lotion cap opening sounded sharp in the otherwise quiet room, quiet house. Dick peeked up at him.

“What are you – ?” He tried to ask, but the cool wetness of lotion being spread on his thigh stopped him.

Papa carefully spread the lotion down to his knee, squirted more and worked that to his foot. He lifted Dick’s leg to get the back of the thigh and calf, and massaged lotion between his toes and along the arch of his foot. Papa did the same to his other leg, then moved to his arms and chest.

“Doesn’t this feel good?” Papa asked, and Dick nodded a little in agreement. “Good. Roll onto your side so I can get your back.”

As Papa ran his fingers over his shoulder blades, one then two then three fingers in tiny little circles, and Dick shivered. Low in his stomach there was fluttering, Papa’s hands massaging to the small of his back and the smell of roses everywhere.

Dick began to flush when Papa moved to his buttocks. His hands followed the curve of them very tenderly, carefully, and something about the way he squeezed them as he massaged – 

The fluttering in his lower belly was a wildfire now, and he could feel the warmth pooling into – into arousal, _oh god_ –

Papa slid the flat of his hand between Dick’s thighs to use his thumb to knead the muscles right under the globe of his rear and that was too close, that was – Papa would realize that he was – 

“P-papa,” Dick mumbled, embarrassed. “I – please, can I have my clothes?”

“No,” Papa replied lightly, still kneading. “Why?”

He was getting hard that was why, but Papa was only massaging lotion on him, and what was _wrong_ with him? “I just…”

This was when Papa noticed, and he sucked in a low inhale of breath. “Oh. Dickie’s naughty, hm? Dickie wants Papa to touch him like this?” He slid the hand between Dick’s thighs forward and then drew it back, pulling it out from between the press of his thighs. He did this a few more times, very slowly and sensually, and Dick could only mewl weakly at how it _felt_. The sensation was oddly stimulating, and he felt the hot build up deep in his gut, and also at the backs of his eyes as tears threatened to fall from embarrassment.

“I’m not – ” But he shuddered and tensed and shut his eyes and – 

And then his belly was damp. He panted and tried to regain his train of thought, tried to apologize. “I didn’t mean to – to get – ”

Papa pulled away, petting the back of Dick’s thighs before capping the lotion. “It’s fine. Papa forgives you. Dickie can wear his underwear and sleep here, that’s okay, Papa understands.”

Dick wiped at his eyes furiously. “Okay.”

And when they finally settled in for the night, Dick in his underwear and Papa in nothing, Papa laid down without another word and turned away from him. His back looked angry and stiff, and Dick wondered if he’d upset Papa with what happened.

 

***

 

Dick woke in the middle of the night, somehow tangled up with Papa. Shifting a little he realized the reason for waking – he had to go to the bathroom.

Untangling his limbs from Papa’s, he slipped out of bed and carefully felt his way through the dark room and then across the hall. Once he reached the bathroom door, he heard a creak behind him which, after looking over his shoulder, he found was Papa following and watching him. “Bathroom,” Dick whispered as an explanation, then turned the doorknob and pushed the door open. He stood there for a few moments though, having a dilemma over whether he should turn on the bright light or wait until his eyes adjusted enough that he could see. Papa was probably half asleep and wouldn’t appreciate being blinded…

Papa padded across the floor and resolved the problem for him by flicking on the light switch, only wincing a little at the brightness. He leaned on the doorframe just behind Dick, thoughtful expression on his face. Dick looked at him, unsure.

Once he had caught Papa’s eye, Papa nodded his head at the toilet, as if telling Dick to go ahead. When Dick still hesitated, Papa’s mouth thinned a little with annoyance. “I have work in the morning, Dickie. I’m tired.”

Oh. _Well_ , he reasoned, _we’ve bathed together. He’s seen me naked loads of times._

But there was something different about this, about peeing in front of someone, like it was a show. Dick tried not to think too hard about it, tried not to think about how loud the sound of it was in the stillness of the night.

“Maybe I should get a nightlight,” Papa mused sleepily, eyeing the outlet by the sink momentarily before turning his eyes back on Dick. “What do you think?”

Dick mumbled incoherently – neither for nor against the idea – hurrying to get covered as decently as wearing only his underwear would allow, and flushed and quickly washed his hands.

“Done,” he said, blushing again, though lightly this time, this not nearly as blindingly embarrassing as – as earlier in Papa’s bed.

“Good,” Papa praised, leaning down to press a chaste kiss to the top of his head. “What a good boy Dickie is.”

Dick nodded, “Thank you,” and let Papa pick him up and carry him back to bed as his reward.


	6. Interlude c

**interlude c.**  
-

 

This town, small and country, had an appropriately as small bank. It had one automated teller machine outside and, inside, only one window with a banker behind it. The man, who hurriedly finished gulping down the bottle of water he was drinking at the sight of a customer, wiped his mouth and nodded politely at Bruce. “How may I be of service, sir?”

He had a familiar look to him, Bruce thought, then placed it as the eager to please expression on his face. That was good, it would make him easy to use, and with fewer employees the chances that this banker had direct connections and information were better. “Hello, I’m James Donnell,” Bruce said, voice disguised. “I work with the land leasers who a certain Kevin Willis is failing to pay back. Since you’re his bank, I figured you’d be able to spare a financial history briefing?”

The banker’s eyes lit up with recognition. “Oh! Kevin Willis…yes, he takes out loans from here. He has a history of not paying them back on time, but…” He shrugged. “You know. Small town. Personal credit over financial credit. Plus he has a nephew that covers for him when it looks like he won’t be able to make the minimum…shame to know he isn’t spending it on what he says he is. The bank’ll have to look into that.”

Bruce arched an eyebrow, faking surprise. “Nephew? Does his nephew live around here? We might need to talk to him.”

The banker shook his head. “No. The kid moved up north to Gotham a while ago. Works at some well-paying, rich people’s school…he’s really the reason Willis gets the loans, he always comes through if Willis doesn’t.”

Bruce nodded. Nothing he hadn’t already gotten directly from the horse’s mouth through intimidation a few hours ago at the Willis ranch. “Anything else on the two of them?”

The man began to slowly shake his head. “He gets loans from the bank, we threaten to take drastic measure sometimes when he slacks in paying, and the nephew steps in and handles it with his hefty paycheck. That’s it. So if you make it clear to him that he’s out of time, he’ll probably hand over some money somehow, either his own or his nephew’s.”

“Right.” Bruce held in the huff of frustration simmering underneath his disguise. He aimed for curiosity, glancing around the tiny bank, and went on casually with a laugh. “This is possibly the smallest bank I’ve ever been in. Does anyone else even work here?”

He received a laugh in return for his troubles. “No,” the banker said. “I own the place and manage it myself. I do sometimes take in a few high school students as part timers to clean the glass windows and run errands for me, though. It’s just such a small town.”

Bruce let out another light hearted laugh, “Ah, you’re your own boss, good gig,” though in his head he cursed. No other leads were here then; it wasn’t Dick’s teacher and it wasn’t the uncle. Not them, but they _were_ involved in it, still. Somehow.

As he said his goodbyes and left, he ran through what he knew for what felt like the hundredth time. If there weren’t leads, that meant the answer was already somewhere in his face. And he knew the uncle owed money for his ranch, was barely keeping his head above water. And he knew that Patterson had to keep bailing his uncle out – this meeting had confirmed that. Willis had let it slip that the two of them had constant communication, and it was a lot of money that Patterson was sending his uncle’s way. Regardless of how much Dick’s school tuition was, Bruce doubted that the teachers were paid as loftily as the people around here seemed to think, that Patterson was swimming in so much money that paying for the lease and bank loans on a ranch wasn’t damaging his ability to tend to his own cost of living.

So that meant Patterson had motive for participating in high risk, high payment deals. Despite the lack of communication through phones, criminal rings in Gotham had other ways to getting deals done. And if Patterson was a teacher at the Gotham Academy, he had easy access to children.

The only problem, Bruce thought, was that ransom was probably far better paying than trafficking. And then there should have been more cases of missing students. No, this had been a specific job for a specific reason. And Bruce had been a fool to think the answer to the case was here.


	7. Chapter 7

“This isn’t the same,” Dick said, cheeks entirely too hot with pure mortification. “As before.”

Papa sighed, couched before Dick, and reached up to cup his face. “No secrets, remember? You said it yourself. So be a good boy.”

“I – I don’t think – I _can’t_ , Papa. Please.”

He looked into Dick’s eyes closely before dropping his arms and standing to his full height. “Alright,” he conceded, voice heavy. Dick could see his disappointment and it, his words loaded with it, was crushing Dick. “How can I keep you safe if you keep secrets from me? I don’t…I can forgive you, but I can’t understand why you’re doing this to me.”

Dick felt stupid, cowering on a toilet seat, felt tiny and inconsequential. “I’m sorry,” he said, getting up and pulling on his underwear. “I think, it’s just, I don’t have to go right now.”

Papa turned to leave the bathroom, nodding to himself. “Right right…” He opened the door and stopped to say over his shoulder, “I’ll go make dinner. No clothes during meals, remember?”

Dick ran his fingers over the waistband of his underwear absent mindedly. “Yes.”

“And then maybe we’ll sit on the porch and eat ice cream again. Would you like that?”

Dick swallowed only a little thickly. “No clothes?”

“No clothes.”

Dick faltered, but. But the line of Papa’s back was so straight with silent anger from Dick’s failure that he knew he needed to make it up to him. “Okay.”

Papa beamed at him for just a moment before leaving, and Dick felt like he hadn’t done something so wrong after all, like he’d found a solution.

(Really Papa had found the solution because, the next morning after he had left for work, Dick found the bathroom door locked. And it wasn’t that Dick wasn’t _capable_ of breaking in the bathroom, but that he wasn’t supposed to. And he had to respect that, he knew. Because Papa only did these things to protect him, because Papa loved him, and disappointing Papa wasn’t okay.)

 

***

 

Papa’s success came soon enough after this.

Dick was in tears the whole time, curled in as much in to himself as Papa would allow, Papa who was crouched in front of him and patting Dick’s hands clutching the front of his shirt.

“It’s fine, this is natural, it’s not a secret, you’re a good boy,” Papa reassured him quietly.

But Dick felt dirty, felt like the moments stretched into eternity and – and – 

“I’m done.” He finally mumbled, words nearly unintelligible because of how congested they were with tears. “I – ”

Papa hushed him again. “Should I wipe for you?” He asked pleasantly, and Dick positively wanted to _die_.

“No – !” Dick protested, but Papa swatted his hand away from the toilet paper and began pulling on the roll himself. “ _Please_.” Dick buried his face in Papa’s shirt and clutched tighter, pleadingly. All his insides were paralyzed with terror and shame.

“Are you upset?” Papa asked as he went ahead with it anyway. “Why? I’m upset that you want to lock Papa out. _That’s_ what’s naughty. _That’s_ what’s bad.”

Dick trembled and clung on and Papa finished, reached over to flush the toilet. “It’s okay, Dickie,” Papa said, and it was just really hard for Dick to hear that over all the embarrassment shrieking inside his head. “Dickie poos and Papa poos, and we share that. Because we’re Family and we share everything.”

He pressed a little kiss to Dick’s forehead, then got up to go to the sink and wash his hands. The sound of water was an unfathomable roaring in Dick’s ears, and he stayed curled into himself until Papa finished drying his hands. He then picked Dick up and carried him out of the bathroom, underwear still around his ankles.

“I – I can’t – you can’t – ” Dick gasped, body racked with sobs. He was so _stupid_. He was so ashamed.

“You’re fine, you’re fine, I forgive you,” Papa cooed.

And Dick was only a little shocked when the, “thank you,” slipped out on its own. He was more horrified over – over what – what he’d just _done_ in front of Papa. 

Never again, he tried to vow to himself. And though he knew that wasn’t true – if Papa wanted it, if that was what he was supposed to do, then however many times, again and again he’d – he also knew the bitter taste in the back of his throat was from the thought of disobedience.

 

***

 

But, despite his vows and reluctance, Dick found that once the newness was gone, so was the shock. Papa was right, and Dick just had to…to adjust and be good. He could use the bathroom with Papa there, watching, helping. No problem. It was just the way it was, after all.

He also, finally, finished _The Grapes of Wrath_ , but didn’t entirely understand the significance of the ending, what breast feeding an old, dying man meant in the big picture. So he talked to Papa about it over dinner, because, because that was always when, with Bruce, when questions of school assignments or night patrols or anything else in the world were asked – 

(And Dick shut that thought away, because Papa was not Bruce and he remembered that he was supposed to be grateful with what he had, for who was actually here for him.)

Their skin stuck together – Papa was still hot and sweaty from being outside – as he told Papa what exactly happened throughout the book, starting at the very beginning and working his way through every chapter, swallowing little laughs from the way the curly hair on the tops of Papa’s thighs tickled his legs.

After the dishes had been cleared, and when Papa carried him upstairs for a bath, Dick reached the ending. “And so the book just ends. With this girl feeding this starving guy breast milk. I don’t…get it.”

Papa hummed and set him down on the bathroom floor, heading towards the bathtub. “Do you have to go to the bathroom?” Papa asked over his shoulder as he bent over to stopper the tub and run the water.

“No,” Dick answered, only squirming a little in discomfort at the thought, and then ploughed on. “So, maybe, it’s the old being supported by the young? Commentary on social structure?”

“Mm.” Papa hummed noncommittally, checking the temperature of the water as the tub filled. “Could be.”

Dick wrinkled his nose a little. “I couldn’t imagine being an old man and breast feeding. Or seeing that happen. It’s a little weird.”

Papa laughed and turned around, seating himself on the bathtub edge. “There could be exceptions, I think. But that’s good to hear, that you enjoyed reading my present.” He opened his arms, and Dick walked across the room to fall into them neatly.

“Right,” Dick said, head resting against Papa’s shoulder as Papa showered kisses along the side of his throat. “Thank you for the book.”

The bath was warm and pleasant, though Papa wouldn’t let him have the soap. But that wasn’t new, not after the first bath after the storm, when it had been a punishment. Now – this – was how Papa said _thank you for letting me take care of you_. And Dick letting him was how he said _thank you for taking care of me_. So he didn’t mind it much when Papa washed him, not anymore.

“Wouldn’t it be lonely,” Papa said as Dick laid on the bed, pliant under his rose scented hands massaging lotion (and Dick thought _be calm, be cool_ because never ever – not like the first time, not ever again). “For you to go back to that room and that bed?”

It took a moment, but Dick realized Papa was talking about his room in this house, down the hall and in the corner. Lonely and faraway, no, he hadn’t slept there in such a long time. Dick couldn’t even remember, couldn’t stretch his mind far enough backwards to remember, when it had last been that he’d sleep in there alone. Papa was right, and it did seem impossibly lonely, just the thought of it. “Yes.”

“Right, of course,” Papa agreed, capping the lotion and getting up to put it on his dresser. “Get under the covers, Dickie,” and Dick obliged. It was only a moment before Papa slid under them as well, a reassuring warmth next to him. He melded into the heat and curve of Papa against his back, breathing evening out easily.

“Dickie,” Papa murmured, rolling onto his side and slinging an arm over Dick’s hip. “We’re happy, aren’t we?”

“Yeah,” he returned sleepily, fading into dreams already.

(And he dreamt of rose petals and dry, hot dirt.)

 

***

 

It was fuzzy early morning, the light outside the windows cool and blue, and Dick realized dimly that Papa’s hand was between his legs, cupping him.

He blinked a few more times, struggling to wake up. “Papa…?”

His only answer was a light, drawling kiss to the back of his neck, and a weak groan of, “It’s early, Dickie. Go to sleep.”

There was nothing more, just Papa’s hand, impossibly large and calloused, curved under his genitalia as a light but there presence. Dick tried to fade off again, but he couldn’t.

Dick stared at the far wall and tried to will the fluttering in his stomach away, calm everything down before anything inexcusable happened.

“I can do this,” Papa mumbled, words sleep slurred and warm against Dick’s skin. “Because we’re close. Papa has so many things to teach you still. So many things to show you.”

“Ah,” Dick could feel Papa’s index finger trace a rhythmic circle down there on the tender skin. It tickled and made Dick’s heart race and his skin tingle, all at once. “Can you not – ?”

Papa pressed another kiss to Dick’s neck, though this led to a trail of kisses down his back, following his spine. He could hear Papa shuffling, scooting along the sheets down and down and down. “Where’s my thank you?” It was muffled, as Papa was both speaking against Dick’s lower back and was buried under the blankets now.

 _For what?_ Dick almost wanted to ask, but he felt the heat pooling and the flush coming and he didn’t want – it was early and he was tired too, just like Papa. “Thank you,” Dick said instead.

“And thank you, for making me happy.” Papa whispered into his skin, the fingers lightly stroking and Dick’s _everything_ down there tightening for a fraction of a second, and only the quietness of the house, of this place on its own edge of the world, allowed Dick to hear those words.

(“What is Dickie’s place in the world?” Papa asked, balancing Dick in his lap and feeding him dinner.

Strange question, Dick thought hazily, arms folded neatly in his lap. And the answer he came up with – well, Robin’s was to make the world a little safer, while Dick’s was to, to, _to_ – was stranger still. “I haven’t decided yet?” Dick questioned more than answered, trying to disguise the blank he drew.

Papa hummed, put the fork down, and took Dick’s hands into his own, palms on palms. “Papa thinks Dickie is here to make Papa happy. Dickie is very good at it, after all.”

And it wasn’t like Dick believed that or anything. He swallowed hard and clenched his knees together, but only because he wasn’t sure if he needed to hush the little spark of something, warm and appreciative, that flared up within him. It kind of felt good to be prided on something as elusive as bringing someone happiness, after all.)

 

***

 

And in another early morning, Dick woke to Papa carefully brushing his bangs out of his eyes. They were getting long again, Dick thought, leaning into the touch sleepily. “Time ‘s it…?

Papa touched the tip of his nose to behind Dick’s ear and said, “Early.” He mouthed silent, disjointed words along Dick’s jaw and then eventually murmured, “Papa loves Dickie.”

Dick blinked, made a little wuffling sound that was meant to be a response.

Papa chuckled, low in the back of his throat, a hand on Dick’s chest. “Dickie needs Papa to cut his hair again, huh?”

Dick managed to nod, jumping a little at the feel of Papa’s hand skimming over his nipple and then down to the sensitive, fleshier part of his stomach.

“Dickie needs Papa…” Papa shifted until he was sort of towering over Dick, used the hand on Dick’s stomach to roll him from his side onto his back. Papa smiled at him, Dick’s eyes were adjusted enough to register the stretch of his little pleased smile, the one he always made when Dick did something just right, and he leaned down to press kisses to Dick’s forehead, to the bridge of his nose, to his mouth. “Dickie needs Papa for all sorts of things.”

Dick gasped, a short intake of breath that felt like a punch to the gut, when Papa’s hand settled between his legs again. “A-ah, Papa…” he tried. The words were difficult to find – _I don’t like that, I don’t know how to feel about that, I don’t know if that’s okay_? And he wasn’t sure if, even if he could work out what the words were, if he could actually say them – 

“Dickie is such a naughty boy,” Papa breathed out against Dick’s mouth, hand cupped like last time, but this time it moved, deliberately rubbing. Dick squirmed, thighs tightening together, hands jumping to Papa’s broad shoulders and curling into his skin as a plea. “He always – always wants this. Always wanted it from the beginning. And Papa loves Dickie, gives him what he wants.”

Dick nearly choked on his words, on the sensation and tingling and _oh god_ he was getting – he could feel himself getting hard and – “That’s not true, I, I never – !”

Papa’s movements changed now, hand going from cupping to wrapping specifically around the shaft of his penis, and at the first stroke down Dick nearly gagged on his own tongue. He could feel his fingernails digging into Papa’s skin, he was holding on so desperately.

“That’s a lie,” Papa whispered, hand going faster and faster between his legs. “Dickie always…it’s okay, Papa forgives you. Papa gives you what you want.”

Dick made a tiny, whining, unintelligible noise, and then he came, holding tightly on to Papa the whole time through.

 

***

 

When Dick woke again, sticky and raw, he was still in bed, though the light outside suggested it was late evening. He struggled into a sitting position, limbs heavy and stomach aching from hunger. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and got up, not sure what his plan was. Maybe he’d go to the kitchen to use the tap to clean up a little. He didn’t like how sticky and gross he felt, and there was a patch of skin under his navel that was tight and itchy from dried semen.

When he padded down the stairs, he found Papa sitting on the couch, reading a newspaper. He looked up at Dick and smiled. “Oh, you’re up. I’m home.”

Dick walked over and leaned in to kiss him his welcome back, opening his mouth obediently when Papa’s tongue slid over his lips. “Thank you,” he said in the aftermath wet smack of their lips separating, then, seeing the dull red scratches leftover on Papa’s bare skin, touched tentative fingers to his shoulders. “Oh…I’m sorry.”

Papa half smiled, patted his lap for Dick sit there, and went back to looking through the paper. “It’s fine. Papa forgives you.”

But Dick didn’t climb on. Instead he shifted and kept his hand on Papa’s shoulder. “I…” He wasn’t sure what to say. He wasn’t sure how he felt. “Is it okay? What happened this morning?”

Papa looked up as though surprised. “Okay? Dickie asked for that. Papas give the little boys they love the things they ask for, of course it’s okay.”

Dick stared long and hard at the crescent marks of nails on Papa’s skin. “Was I really. You know. Asking for that?” His eyes focused on Papa’s face, looking for an answer.

Papa’s mouth twisted into something like a smirk, an expression that made Dick’s heart clench painfully, and his eyes in turn went to Dick’s crotch, eyeing it skeptically. “Yes,” he answered, matter of fact, and Dick felt a familiar burn of shame, from how Papa was looking at him.

(He supposed he _had_ been. He’d been the one to getting aroused from…)

“Anyway,” Papa said, folding up his paper and setting it aside. When Dick still didn’t climb into his lap (what if he accidentally _asked_ again, there was something inherently humiliating about impulsively wanting something like that, something that reduced him to a squirming gasping mess), Papa sighed and wrapped an arm around Dick’s waist, pulling him in and down and sideways onto his lap. “I’ve got a present for you. But I think I should give it to you tomorrow. I can’t give you presents when I have to punish you – even if lying about what you’ve asked me for is silly.”

Something dawned on Dick, even as he was hyperaware of the way Papa felt beneath him. Was that asking for it too, feeling that bulge underneath him in such an intimate way and wanting to blush at the contact? He tried to get his mind on something else. “I – it’s past dinnertime, isn’t it?”

Papa sighed, heavy and sad, and Dick was going to burst from…something. Something in Dick felt like it was going to crack and explode, because Papa was disappointed again and he was trying really hard, so hard, to not do that to Papa anymore. “Later we’ll take a bath and go to bed, but I can’t feed you. Not after you lied. Lying isn’t okay. Isn’t good.”

“Right,” Dick agreed quietly, shifting to lay his head back against Papa’s chest because he was very hungry and it would be a long night. He tried to blot out the thoughts of what that movement did to Papa underneath him, shifting him too, rubbing them together, and this was it. This was how he asked all the time for Papa and how could he not notice before and be stupid and lie about it?

 

***

 

After breakfast the next morning, Papa carried him to the living room and set him on the couch before leaving for outside with the promise of, “I’ll be right back with your present.”

He came back inside with a chest that he set down in the middle of the living room floor. Dick looked at it and realized he’d seen it before; it was the chest that had held the quilts that used to be in the shed. It looked refurbished and shiny, with new hinges to attach the lid properly and all the old dents and stains worked out. Papa smiled kindly at him, seeing the recognition in his eyes, then undid the new lock on the front before opening the lid up proudly.

Dick leaned forward to look inside it, expecting quilts. Instead he saw that the entire inside of the chest had been lined with some sort of cushiony material. White satin, it looked like from the sheen it had in the morning sunlight. “What is this for?” Dick asked slowly.

Papa patted the chest and kept smiling. “To keep you safe.”

Dick felt something foreign swoop in his stomach, something that made him wary. “I…don’t understand.”

“When Papa isn’t here,” he explained lightly. “He worries about Dickie being home alone. So this will keep Dickie safe until Papa gets home.”

 _Satin doesn’t breathe well_ some forgotten piece of his training advised him nervously. Dick took it. “Won’t I suffocate in a few hours? I’m not a quilt.”

Papa picked up on Dick’s discomfort, and his eyebrows knitted together in response. “Papa thought of that,” he said, sounding almost offended and oh, Dick realized abruptly, he _would_ have taken that into account, he made Papa happy and Papa loved him. 

“There’re little ventilation holes in the top. Papa just wants Dickie to be safe and sound. What if someone breaks in? What if there’s a bad storm and Dickie starts being silly again? Papa is only protecting Dickie.”

And Dick knew that, really, but something about this was making him feel more alert than he had in a while. Something that had been buried deep within him was shouting, and while Dick couldn’t understand what it was saying, he could understand what it, maybe, should have been. What it might have been trying to get him to do. “I don’t – ”

Papa crouched in front of Dick, taking his chin between his thumb and forefinger again, like he had so many times, rendering Dick silent in a second. “Dickie, I’m asking you. And what do good little boys do when their elders ask them something?”

Dick sucked in a quick mouthful of air, remembering gratitude and affection and being Papa’s everything.

(and Papa being his all too.)

“…They answer. They say please and thank you whenever possible when speaking to an elder.”

Papa smiled and kissed the edge of Dick’s mouth. “So what do you say?”

Dick felt his heart racing, pounding so hard he could hear it in his ears, and he felt a little dizzy, he didn’t want – 

“Please don’t be gone long. Thank you for the chest,” he said, carefully, quietly, and let Papa scoop him up. 

Papa cautiously lowered him into the chest, making sure his legs folded neatly into it, then stood back to admire his handiwork. Dick could already tell, while he could stretch his legs out a little, his knees were still bent slightly when his legs hit the satiny, flat wall, he would have to bend forward a little for the lid to close. Even if he laid curled up or on his side, he’d be bent up a little.

“Papa loves you,” Papa said, closing the lid slowly. “Papa will be home soon.”

And then with a final creak, there was darkness.

 

***

 

Dick didn’t begin to panic until he couldn’t keep track of time anymore. There was something drastic about being locked in a chest that shocked Dick’s mind into analytical mode, something he had, before now, found inaccessible after so much time spent here dulling his edges.

Around the five minute mark, when he was sure Papa had left (there was the muffled sound of the door shutting and then nothing), he ran his hands all over the chest’s insides, exploring it best he could while his eyes still adjusted. Papa hadn’t been lying about the ventilation, and Dick could feel the little ridges of puncture holes over his head. However, not only were they tiny, but Dick feared there was so much distance between the enter and exit holes that telltale light wouldn’t get through, leaving him trapped in the dark. Dick also, most immediately, feared that Papa had miscalculated and that holes that small wouldn’t prevent him from suffocating.

But the darkness abated into only an inconvenience rather than paranoia to feed his building – but carefully put aside – fear, after about twenty minutes. Dick had once been trapped in a cave with no light or water or radio, waiting in absolute darkness for Bruce to trace his last radio coordinates and find him. The fuzziness of this darkness, his eyes able to adjust to catches of light, wasn’t so scary.

It was at maybe thirty (forty?) minutes that Dick began to sweat. Like he’d remembered, satin didn’t breathe well. The air had begun to get noticeably recycled and the satin no longer was cool to the touch. No matter how Dick shifted, it touched him and went from warm to body heated hot in a matter of seconds. He could feel the sweat beginning to bead on the nape of his neck.

It had maybe been an hour (maybe. maybe?) when the satin started to bug him. It was nauseatingly slippery, like silk, yet denser. It agitated him, that it touched him all over, as smooth in one place as it was the other, faceless, all one continuing plane. Dick recognized that sign as bad, as the modest beginnings of going stir crazy, and made himself run his fingers over the puncture holes. _Here’s the top_ , he told himself, _I am right side up and on the other side of this chest is the ceiling above me_.

Dick guessed an hour and a half or two hours had passed when he realized that with the recycled air came recycled smell. He’d barely noticed it at first, but now the chest smelled of rose lotion, of reused oxygen, of heady wood, of old quilts and old book pages.

(And then maybe three hours had passed, or maybe two or maybe five or maybe it had really only been a few minutes, and Dick felt like he was dying. His muscles cramped and bones ached and he couldn’t see anything but dimly lit satin going on forever, thumb pressed to the fabric ridges above him.)

 

***

 

Dick gasped in fresh air, letting it bathe over his sweat dampened skin like water, when Papa opened the lid. He wanted to jump out, but instead Papa fitted his hands under Dick’s arms and lifted him slowly out.

Collapsing onto the couch with armfuls of Dick, Papa mashed their mouths together fiercely, apologetically. Dick blinked furiously, eyes adjusting painfully sudden to the light.

“Papa is so sorry,” he said, spreading kisses everywhere he could reach. “Papa hadn’t stopped thinking about Dickie since he left. But Papa has a day off tomorrow, so we’ll spend it together, promise.”

Dick panted, exhilarated by the coolness of the air. “Okay,” he murmured, because Papa was his savior who had opened up the box and let him out and – _no wait that wasn’t right_ – everything was okay, he was okay – _he couldn’t think straight_ – 

“Thank you,” Dick managed, even as Papa covered Dick’s mouth with his again.


	8. Interlude d

**interlude d.**  
-

 

Bruce had an idea, because it had been the same old story from Patterson, to even Batman.

(Patterson said Dick had an upset stomach and was embarrassed, asked him to not wait for him in the bathroom. Patterson said he’d come back and went to go catch up with the other kids and make sure they’d get on their flight, then returned only to find Dick missing. He’d stayed around, looking for Dick, filing a report with the airport to look for him, then eventually had to fly out to Florida to meet and chaperone the rest of the students for their mathletes competition.)

And the security tapes from the camera outside the bathroom had confirmed that same old story.

(No one came out of the bathroom with any luggage or children they didn’t have going in. Patterson and Dick went in, Dick leaning heavily on his teacher, then Patterson came out. A few men entered and left the men’s restroom with only their belongings, then Patterson returned, only to run out soon after looking frantic.)

But Bruce had an idea, one that required him to go back to the files he’d already collected on the men who’d entered the bathroom between Patterson leaving and coming back, the files from when he had tracked down where those few men lived and ran background checks on them. He had earlier dismissed those files because none of those men had even vaguely threatening connections to anything. Barely anything had come back about them, really, other than names.

(But it turned out that was all that Bruce needed.)

And with those names, with their faces and cameos on the tape branded in his memory and printed out as high definition glossies, he was going to leave the Commissioner a friendly neighborhood vigilante tip to head back up to the airport and find some probable cause.

Meanwhile, _Batman_ was going to check into the most suspicious coincidence yet in this case and find out what he needed in order to take his no-probable-cause-needed action.


	9. Chapter 9

“You want this, Dickie wants this, Dickie is such a naughty boy…”

He did, Dick thought hazily, he was hard.

Papa’s hand was huge, engulfing Dick’s, guiding him. Papa’s penis was big too, bigger than Dick’s, and he was also hard.

“ _Such_ pretty fingers,” Papa murmured on the end of a sigh, and for a second Dick thought – 

Well. That sounded familiar, he remembered.

“Move your hand, like that, like _that_ ,” Papa urged, his hand sliding Dick’s fingers down. Dick shivered as they ran over the ridge of a vein and thought _right side up, above me is the ceiling_.

Papa’s breaths were strained but approving, and Dick guessed that the feeling swirling, burning in his chest was pride.

Papa’s words hitched as he asked, “How much does Dickie love Papa?”

Dick’s eyes were trained on their hands, joined together and moving together and they were together, always, Papa said and it was true. “A lot.”

“Say it,” Papa groaned, his fingers a death grip on Dick’s. Dick could feel Papa twitch in his hand, and the sensation made Dick squint a little, frown a little. “Say Dickie loves Papa.”

“Dickie loves Papa,” Dick parroted. Papa’s penis twitched again, more violently, and Dick realized – “Dickie loves Papa – ”

Papa stopped moving, grunting and hunching over and – 

When Papa finally let go of his fingers, Dick pulled them away, bruised and sticky. Oh.

“Papa loves Dickie,” Papa said like it was his everything, pulling Dick into a hug, and between them Dick’s erection poked Papa in the stomach. Dick knew it did, because the instant he felt it, Papa laughed with almost childish delight.

“Right, right, naughty boy. You liked the feel of Papa’s cock in your hand, I know, I forgive you.”

Dick realized, no, that wasn’t pride – 

Papa used his hand to gather their two shafts together, and Dick hissed out a breath when Papa stroked. “No, no,” Dick huffed out, burying his face in Papa’s skin.

“Dickie wants Papa to give him everything, and Papa does. Papa will.”

That – was shame, wasn’t it?

“I don’t – ” Dick argued. “I’m not – _uhn_ – ”

Papa’s hand went faster and Dick trembled, panted, was needy and _asking for it_. Right. That was right, that was what he was doing.

“Oh Dickie. You always wanted Papa to touch you like this – so naughty.”

And he was ashamed of that. Embarrassed by that.

 

***

 

Dick didn’t think much of Papa moving his chest into the bedroom until…until the first time Dick had to wait in the chest in its new location.

Until Papa came home that day. 

By now Dick knew how to wait in the chest, how to shut himself off, stop his brain and his panic. It was like meditation, a trance, a sleeping state that made the hours not matter as much, the way the satin stuck to his skin and the way he sometimes got nosebleeds, none of that, matter at all. He’d just shut himself off and just sleep-wait for Papa to come home and let him out. And sometimes he woke up and felt like the satin was burning his skin with its soft slipperiness, like he was floating out of body and was going to suffocate under satin and wood, but he learned to press his thumb to the hole ridges and run the pad of his finger over them again and again until he was okay again.

While in this state of waiting, Dick learned how to distinguish thumps and bumps and muffled sounds from one another. And before, in the living room, the sounds of the door opening and Papa walking in and shutting it behind him were all very easy to pick up. But here, upstairs and in the bedroom…it sounded different, faraway, and Dick’s ears strained to hear it. He thought he heard Papa coming in several times only to be wrong, for him to have imagined the sounds.

And then there it was. The distant slam of the door. There was the pause, when Papa would take off his shoes…and now there were thumps again, as Papa – 

Where was he going? Into the kitchen? The thumps got father away, and then were gone and – and Dick’s breath quickened, he sucked in stale air too fast and got lightheaded, because was Papa gone? Dick tried to reason, no, he just went into the kitchen, it was probably hot today, Papa needed water, and then Dick tasted blood because, oh. Oh, his nose was bleeding from how hastily and heavily he’d started breathing, from how dehydrated he was.

Then Dick could hear him again, approaching the stairs. It was so slow, so panicking for Dick, how long it was taking Papa to – ah there, he’d reached the stairs, the thumping was getting closer.

Dick scratched his nails along the wall of the chest at the sound of the door to the bedroom opening. Close, really close, too close. Dick wanted to see Papa’s face peering down on him, feel the fresh air of the room on his face, let Papa pick him up and – 

The thumps slowly made their way across the room to the corner where Dick was. Come on come on come on, Dick thought.

There was a pause, oh he had to get the lock open, come on come on come ON – 

Silence, as Papa crouched, then the click of him opening the lock, _come on_ – 

The lid lifted, and there was Papa, with a glass of water in one hand. Dick didn’t even wait, too eager, and scrambled out, latched onto Papa, clinging to him, pressing a kiss to his cheek, not caring of the blood he left smeared there.

“Dickie – ?”

“No no no,” Dick found the words spilling out before he knew what he was saying. “I can’t, don’t do that, be _faster_.” His arms were wrapped around Papa’s neck, as Papa struggled to balance him in his arms and not spill the water. Papa still had on clothes, Dick realized angrily, the material scratchy against his bare skin.

“Dickie – ”

He cut Papa off. “Take off your clothes, I don’t – why did you take so _long_?”

Papa let out a quiet laugh, then carried Dick to the bed and set him down. “Drink some water,” he said, handing Dick the glass. “Oh, Dickie, you’re bleeding…” He wiped his finger over Dick’s top lip, blood collecting on his fingertip, sighed and walked to the half bathroom and disappeared from view.

Dick hastily gulped the water, ignoring the metallic taste of blood washing down the back of his throat. Papa had returned, a wad of toilet paper in hand, and he sighed again and took the glass from Dick, setting it out of the way.

“Silly Dickie,” Papa said, leaning in to dab at his bloody nose. “I suppose you should tilt your head forward…”

Dick instead surged forward, pressing another welcome kiss to Papa’s mouth, hands scrambling at Papa’s shirt. He was looking for buttons. He was also looking for acceptance because this wasn’t – the sooner Papa got undressed the sooner it was back to normal and Papa wouldn’t be going anywhere until tomorrow morning – 

Papa laid a calming hand over Dick’s hands, using the other hand to cup Dick’s chin and pull him back a little. “Does Dickie want Papa closer, is that what this is about?” He licked at the blood on Dick’s upper lip. “Did Dickie miss Papa?”

“Yeah,” Dick answered, breathless.

Papa pulled away completely, began pulling off his shirt. “Dickie wants Papa to be closer?”

Dick tried to breathe right, to calm down, to rein himself in. He was spilling all over, emotions and words and thoughts. “Yes. _Yes_ , I can’t – I was lonely – ”

“Okay.” Papa reassured him, shirt off, and now he quickly stripped off his pants, his underwear too, as he was moving back to the bed – 

Their mouths pressed together and Dick was okay now, because Papa was touching him and there were sensations that weren’t satin for miles and hours, Papa loved him and he wasn’t alone. He was never alone with Papa here.

Papa pushed Dick down on the bed, more aggressively than usual so Dick bounced a little against the mattress, and Papa kept going, sliding his hand down between them.

“Dickie is impatient,” Papa growled, hand jerking Dick’s penis hard and fast. “Dickie is desperate for Papa to make him come.”

Dick gasped at how rough Papa was handling him, at how callously Papa tugged him into arousal. “Okay,” he whimpered compliantly. “Okay, yeah.”

And then Papa’s hand moved, fingers scaled past his scrotum and even further between his legs and Dick choked at where they stopped.

“And this is where Dickie wants Papa to be,” Papa whispered, fingers massaging. “Right here in his asshole.”

Dick tried to catch his breath. “I – I don’t know if – ”

Papa wasn’t gentle, he worked in one finger without warning and Dick froze, registering discomfort dancing threateningly on the edge of pain. “Papa,” he tried, voice a whisper. “Papa, that hurts.”

Papa shushed him, began working in a second finger that for sure hurt. Dick made a strange sound that stuck in his throat. “Dickie wants it to hurt,” Papa said. “Dickie is naughty, but it’s okay. Papa loves him anyway.”

“Okay,” Dick barely got out, breathing heavily and hurting and there was still the scent of blood in his nose, the sticky leftover of his nosebleed on his lip.

“Do you want it now, Dickie wants it now, Dickie can’t wait.” Papa’s voice rumbled over Dick in waves and he nearly cried when Papa pulled out his fingers, there was panging hurt and tears on the edges of his vision.

Only – only – only, Papa wasn’t done and wait, wait he was – that wasn’t going to fit there, Dick thought wildly when he realized what – _what_ – 

“Dickie wants it so fast, so soon, Dickie you naughty naughty boy,” Papa crooned, sliding in and Dick was gagging on pain.

Papa’s hands held on at the ridges of his hips, the pressure on the bone painful, and Dick couldn’t think over the burning friction. Papa was slamming into him, it felt like. “Ah ah, Pa – ah – ” 

(His attempts to talk only resulted in spit down his chin as he gagged and coughed and Dick had no control.)

Dick might have shut down somewhere in there, or maybe he didn’t and it was just as suddenly over as it had begun, and Papa was pulling out and Dick was shaking, was hurting. He was settling back in body, in the moment, and was abruptly aware of the smell of urine.

Papa reached over and brushed a cursory hand through Dick’s damp hair, fingers tickling over his scalp. “Oh Dickie,” he murmured. “Sometimes you want too much. Look at the mess you’ve made…it was just too much.”

Dick’s legs felt like rubber and his rear like fire and his heart like a pincushion. It _was_ all too much. “Sorry.”

Papa made an understanding noise in the back of his throat. “I forgive you. We’ll take a bath, have dinner…and from now on, we’ll make sure Dickie uses the bathroom right after Papa gets home. Make sure when Dickie asks for this, we’ll use the lotion to make it easier. Okay?”

Dick nodded as Papa gathered him into his arms, wincing when where it hurt jostled. “Okay, yeah,” he offered hoarsely. 

Okay. Yeah.

 

***

 

Papa made good on his words. Though Dick still did not like the anxiety build up that being in the bedroom caused, Papa said it was safer and better and so his chest stayed tucked safely in the far corner of the room. When Papa let him out in the evenings, Papa would undress and he would pick up Dick and they would go to the bathroom, then down to the kitchen for water.

Dick liked the routine, because it was easy to remember: and then there was dinner, and then Papa carried him to the living room for newspaper reading, and then Papa carried him upstairs for a bath, and then to the bedroom for lotion, and then Papa would touch him – because Dick always asked for it when they did the lotion part of the routine – and then in the morning there would be breakfast, and then he would go in the chest, and then routine started all over. 

And then there were Papa’s days off. On Papa’s days off, often, they wouldn’t even ever get out of bed, the routine routinely broken on these days, because Dick was lonely enough on normal days to want and deserve just that when Papa had all day free.

“Papa loves you, Dickie,” Papa whispered, one hand on Dick’s hip and the other holding up his weight on the bed. “Loves you more than any– _hnh_ – anything else. Enough to give you this, what you want so badly, so often.”

Dick’s fingers curled in the blankets, his knees bent and bracing against Papa’s thrusts. Dick’s cheek was pressed to the mattress and was damp, and his nose could pick up the scent of rose mingling with sweat while buried in the sheets. “Yeah, yes, okay, thank you.”

 

***

 

One afternoon there was no warning. Just silence stretching in every direction and then Dick heard clicking noises in the lock. He turned his head, so his ear was balanced on his knees, and stared at the chest wall. He hadn’t heard Papa come in, so what…?

The lid opened and Dick squinted up in the light. His hair was definitely too long, he realized, his bangs falling into his eyes. And then he realized that he was looking up at a very familiar black cowl.

“B…Batman?”

The line of Batman’s mouth twitched in this funny little way, and Dick remembered faintly how that meant he was pushing back impulses he wanted to act on. “Dick,” he growled out. “We’re leaving.”

Something in Dick’s chest twisted painfully. “But…Papa isn’t here. He’d want me to say goodbye – ” And then the thought of saying goodbye came to Dick and it was. Simply put, it was unfathomable. What would he do not-with Papa? They had a routine and Papa needed him and he needed Papa – 

“Papa.” Batman repeated, not a question. There was a short silence then Batman gave a minute shake of his head. “Dick, get out of the chest. We can talk about this for a few minutes and then _we’re leaving_.”

Dick leaned back against the satin, confusion and a hint of panic whirling around in his chest. “But Papa carries me, you’ll have to – ”

Batman crouched suddenly, perched so he was looking directly in Dick’s face. “We don’t. Have. Time for this. I’m sorry.”

But Dick needed time, he needed to explain this to Batman. Papa _needed_ him. “But Papa and I, we – ”

Batman’s hand shot forward, pressing a handful of some sweet smell into his nose, and the other arced from nowhere in a graceful slice, hitting some nerves in his neck. And then Dick knew no more.

 

***

 

The next time Dick woke, he was in an unfamiliar –

_Wait no_ , he told himself. _No, this is my old bedroom_.

He turned his head and found himself looking at Alfred, sleeping sitting up in a chair, a TV remote loosely held in his hand. On his other side was an IV bag hooked up to his arm, and another bag that Dick sluggishly identified as hooked up to a – his – catheter. Across the room was the television, which was turned on to the news station. Some interview with new actors on a big name movie who were giving to charity was drawing to a close, and as it went to commercial there was a boast of an upcoming interview with Bruce Wayne on the overdue return of his ward.

Right. _Okay, yeah_ , Dick thought. But that was a mistake, because then his thoughts turned to Papa and – 

He bolted into an upright position, because everything smelled wrong, and this bed was too big for just him, and, and _poor Papa_ – 

“It is nice to see that you are awake, Master Richard. Thirsty?”

Dick turned back to Alfred, who, other than a small and polite yawn behind his hand, showed no sign of ever being asleep.

“No,” Dick said and, to his surprise, his voice was weak, cracking, desperate. “No, I want – where’s Papa? What. What happened, is he okay?”

Alfred’s next words were suddenly cold. “Master Richard, his name is not Papa.”

Dick was taken aback, but his shock quickly twisted ugly, clenching painfully around some empty, vengeful part of him, making his response wrought with the juvenile bite of taunting. “What, did Bruce tell you to say that? ‘Cause I bet he’s just _jealous_.”

Alfred sighed low and long, shut the television off. “Since you went missing Master Bruce has been making himself sick with worry and nonstop searching. And he was right to do so. That man you were with – he neither acted like nor should ever be called a father figure.”

Dick drew his knees up to his chest and buried his face in them. Wrong. Wrong wrong, Papa was his everything – 

“You don’t know. You don’t understand. I’m meant to make Papa happy. I _make_ Papa happy. What else am I supposed to do?” He’d meant to hide the tears building up in his eyes, but the waver of his voice gave him away anyway.

Alfred sighed again, a “Master Richard,” full of heartbreak, and Dick wanted to say, _wrong it’s Dickie, he called me Dickie_.

 

***

 

When Dick woke again, he was surprise to find out that he’d even been sleeping.

“How long ‘ve been out?” He mumbled, mouth cottony and dry. He figured that Bruce, Alfred, or his highly decorated with the best of the best degrees doctor was there. The three of them had probably been standing guard over him, like Papa was in any condition to come and claim Dick back.

“A few days. You reacted badly to what I used to knock you out – it didn’t mix well with the drugs already in your system, and for that I apologize,” came the stoic response. Ah, so Bruce it was. “At any rate, the blood tests show that, with another few days to a week, you’ll be a little more you than the drugs. Maybe then we can talk.”

Dick moved his head so he could look over at Bruce. Bruce was sitting in the chair, legs crossed as he read a folder of papers, as if he wasn’t the worst one of all.

“We were happy,” Dick hissed. “We were Family and he loved me. You ruined it.”

“And that would be the drugs talking,” Bruce said, nonchalant and unaffected. “You wouldn’t believe the things he pumped you full of. But you’re also in shock, so I’m not at liberty to tell you anything until you can hear it without going into cardiac arrest.”

“Fuck you,” Dick said irately, because he’d never said it to – because to Bruce he was just Robin Boy Wonder, his sidekick he could condescend down to, and where did _Dick_ fit into all that?

Bruce didn’t respond, only turned a page in his folder and didn’t meet Dick’s angry, searching eyes. So Dick looked away too.

 

***

 

Bruce had been right about the couple of days thing. Only, Dick couldn’t think of that over the sudden shocking _sharpness_ of everything. It was like every little detail of the room was highly defined, like all of Dick’s senses were bursting from behind a dam, and his thoughts were rushing past. Nothing was muted, nothing was quiet inside his head. It was all roaring to life, and that meant – that _meant_ – 

“I don’t understand,” Dick whispered piteously, curled in on himself in the bed, brain racing and the scratch of the sheets against his skin was mind blowing. There were aches deep in him and sometimes, between his legs, it burned when he moved the wrong way. Bruce didn’t say anything, but the clacking of his fingers against his laptop’s keyboard was so fast that Dick was sure that he was anxious, was holding himself back. See, like _that_ , where had that been? “He didn’t – Papa never, not _ever_ – Bruce, you’re lying – ”

Bruce didn’t look up from the screen or stop typing. “You don’t think he drugged you, is what you’re trying to tell me?” His tone was even, if not flat and disengaged. “Then what do you think this is? My doing?”

Dick’s breath was coming out ragged. He was lying, he _did_ understand, he was understanding a lot, realizing a lot, thinking too much. “Papa loved me. Papa needs me. And I have to…”

He _got_ that Papa had drugged him – even though he’d been careful, and he’d have to ask Bruce how Papa had managed that – and that meant that Papa had used him. But in no way did that mean that it wasn’t true that Papa needed him. They needed each other, they made each other happy, and maybe it was okay like that. “I’m here for him,” Dick admitted, more to the sheets than to Bruce. “It’s okay, what he did. Because I’m his to do whatever with, whatever he does it’s because he loves me. Papa loves Dickie. I asked for it and Papa – ”

Bruce slammed his laptop closed, cutting Dick off. “His name is not Papa. He didn’t love you, you weren’t put here on this Earth for him, and you in no way _asked_ for anything he did to you.” His words were sharp and fast, like he knew he shouldn’t say them but couldn’t hold them back anymore.

Shock and cardiac arrest, Dick remembered him saying, and he thought Bruce’s fear was unnecessary. He’d heard what Bruce had to say, and he felt fine, just kept gasping into the clean cottony smell of the sheets.

(If only because he didn’t believe it.)

 

***

 

His doctor – Dick had gotten to know after a few thorough checkups that her name was Amina Franklin – had finally taken him off of IV flushing and bed rest.

“The drugs in him are definitely at a good, low level, considering how saturated he was,” she said, wiping an alcohol wipe over the juncture of his elbow where she had pulled the needle out. Dick was tempted to tell Doctor Franklin that Bruce already knew the exact levels of his blood tests, that she was unnecessary, that Bruce was faking it and was a genius with a lab underneath the mansion. But he didn’t, if only because he didn’t want to talk to her. Or to Bruce. And that would be inviting, or rather instigating, a conversation. That would be Dick hounding after petty revenge.

“We can’t risk trying to flush it out of him anymore, not when we’re trying to get his nutrition intake stable, so we’re at the point where it’s just going to have to wear off on its own,” she continued, as uninterrupted as she was unnecessary. “His body can work it out faster than we can force it by now. Just keep him on the diet plan I’ve written out for you and the vitamin and mineral supplements, and he should regain his weight and strength over time.”

She waved to her assistant to roll out the IV stand as she threw away the wipe and began packing up; they’d already taken out the catheter earlier, and so were done with him. She was very efficient, Dick thought. He could admire that, if anything.

“If you’re really worried about the deterioration of his muscles, you can start him on light exercise like walking around the estate for ten minutes, then fifteen, twenty and so on, in a few days.” She said, tilting her head towards the window, indicating the grounds outside. “Really, you’ll need to check in with a physical therapist, at least for an initial once-over to make sure he’s at a good place overall. His vitals are completely stable, he’s getting past the shock, so you’ll be able to start looking at psychiatrists too, if you’d like. Other than that…”

Bruce didn’t have his typical airheaded billionaire expression on, not that Dick really expected it after all this, was instead intense and listening, his presence commanding, forceful. “What about the sexual abuse aftereffects? Did those results come back in?”

Doctor Franklin tensed, eyeing Dick warily. He pretended not to notice it. “I…I thought you would want to speak about that privately. Well, I mean, not in front of your ward.”

Bruce eyed him too, but as if gauging him. Dick still pretended not to notice. “It’s his body. He deserves to hear firsthand all his progress.”

She shrugged, attempting for callous but only managing discomforted. “Well…he’s clean, STD-wise. The only thing is that there was some tearing that was having trouble healing, because it was a little infected. We added antibiotics to the drip when we noticed it, cleaned it up, and it seemed to have done the job. If there’s any pain or discomfort, or blood in his stool, tell us and we’ll check it out, get him back on the antibiotics and keep a closer eye on it. Other than that, it’s time that’ll do the trick and get him back on his feet.”

Bruce offered a softer expression, a slight smile and a hand for her to shake, and something about that made Dick angry. “Right. Thank you. Alfred will be up to escort you out.”

After she’d left, Bruce kept his back to Dick, looking out the window. Dick figured he was watching Doctor Franklin and her assistant walk to their car and drive off the grounds.

“Did you have sex with her?” Dick eventually spat at him venomously. “I’m sure you had all sorts of crazy parties while I was out of your way.”

It was the first thing he’d said in days. He didn’t talk much unless spoken to, and only sometimes. Other times he just didn’t respond. Dick wasn’t sure what he was playing at, taking the first swipe this time.

“Regarding me as the antagonist isn’t doing you any good.” Bruce kept looking out the window as he spoke. “In case you were curious, we’ll probably have J’onn act as your psychiatrist. It’s easier.”

“Because you can just have him open my head up and take out what’s ‘wrong’, huh?” Dick mumbled, and he looked away too, at the far wall. Because if Bruce was going to deny him the courtesy of face to face interaction, of emotion, he wasn’t going to search for it.

“No,” Bruce said, and his voice was so emotionless it was aggravating. “That would be dangerous. He’ll look in with you, have you re-witness the trauma, and talk you through the things he sees in your head. That’s part of the healing process. But it’s because he’s a close friend and he already knows firsthand both your being Robin and the side effects of the crime fighting job. Posttraumatic stress disorder spans more than an isolated event, you know.”

Dick’s hands clenched into fists. “So. So now it’s because I’ve been _Robin_ , for _you_ , that I. I’ve.” He was choking on tears all of a sudden and Dick hated himself. “I was messed up even before I got myself kidnapped, is what you’re saying.”

And then he couldn’t breathe, Dick felt like something heavy was sitting on his chest, he couldn’t breathe, just kept on squeezing out tears and hunching over.

Bruce had suddenly, silently, gotten to the side of the bed, hovering just beside Dick, not touching him. “No, that’s not it,” Bruce’s voice was emphatic, was quiet and calm but urgent. “ _Dick_ , it is my fault if it’s anyone’s, don’t you _ever_ blame yourself, or think that I blame you. We will work through this, just _breathe_ , you’re okay.”

But Dick wasn’t okay. He understood everything he was supposed to feel towards Papa, and he didn’t feel any of it at all.

 

***

 

Bruce had to leave for overdue business he’d put off, including overtime investment in getting Gotham’s crime back under control, so it was really just Dick and Alfred for a long while there.

Dick kind of preferred that, because looking at Bruce? It sort of made his insides hurt sometimes. He’d taken again to not talking to Bruce, and that kind of helped. Bruce being gone would help more.

It turned out that Alfred hadn’t changed much from before everything that happened, he was still very quiet and moved around the house like a ghost, a silent but reassuring presence. And Dick liked the house quiet. It was familiar.

“Master Richard,” Alfred knocked on his door before opening it a crack to peek in. Dick, now, also liked that Alfred called him that. He remembered to respond to ‘Master Richard’ because it was very clearly him. It was untouched. He always felt like Bruce was, was berating him or disappointed or something, when he said ‘Dick’ instead of ‘Dickie’ and Dick forgot to look up and respond, because he was waiting for the finishing syllable. It was easier to remember ‘Master Richard’. There was plenty of syllabic time to remind himself who that was. “Would you like some lunch?”

He’d been avoiding this. Lunch meant – that meant – Papa wasn’t here and no one was going to feed him. Who would feed him? Papa wasn’t here and he wasn’t allowed to – “No.” He answered sharply, feeling dizzy with – well, now there was pride, because he was a good boy.

Alfred stared at him closely. “You have a very strict diet plan that’s to build your strength back up, yet you haven’t eaten since Doctor Franklin took you off your IV. I’m afraid, sir, that two days is too long to claim a lack of hunger, and I won’t accept a third. I really must insist that you eat.” He pushed the door fully open to reveal that he was holding a tray with a plate of food on it.

Dick stared as Alfred sat it on his lap. There was fish, rice, and a little mound of salad dressed up with tomatoes and cucumbers. Very basic, very safe. He didn’t say anything else, just stared. Because he wasn’t allowed, he couldn’t.

Alfred stood and watched, and Dick sat and stared, and they were at an impasse. Dick wasn’t sure how much time passed, he simply watched the leaves of his salad wilt and the fish and rice go cold. He was good at waiting things out, after all.

“Master Richard,” Alfred said kindly after some time. “May I ask what, precisely, is wrong?”

Dick knew he probably looked like a crazy person, he could feel the sweat beading his forehead and the back of his neck. “I…I can’t.” He didn’t know how to explain this. He didn’t want to have to explain this. Alfred would get mad again, cold again, like Bruce. And he didn’t – Papa was warm, was his everything.

Alfred was still a good sport, waited without making a sound, so Dick took a deep breath, gathered his courage, and pushed forward. “Papa feeds me. I’m…not allowed. I can’t.”

Alfred sighed, then pulled the chair up the bedside and sat. “Master Bruce had feared something like this. I had too. You _had_ been locked up in a chest, after all, why wouldn’t that man control your every action?” Dick swallowed hard, feeling the cold sweat bead his upper lip now. 

Alfred reached over and picked up the fork and knife, then went for the fish and began to cut it into smaller pieces. “But while Master Bruce has ordered that we make you ‘go cold turkey’ and not humor you…I fear that there are some things we simply cannot dive straight into. And I refuse to let you starve to death because a lunatic beat it into your head that you must be fed to eat.”

Dick frowned slightly, confused, as Alfred presented a forkful of fish to him, but then accepted it, almost shyly. It wasn’t Papa, but. But, okay, Papa wouldn’t want him dead, either. Yeah, okay. This was okay.

“I am not saying we’ll go around calling you ‘Dickie’, or that we will buy you a nice little lined chest for you to sleep in. But feeding you…we can wean you off that a little slower, yes?”

Dick swallowed and found a shadow of his old humor lurking in him. “’s okay, Alfie. I didn’t really like the chest part, anyway.”

And Alfred smiled like the sun.


	10. Interlude e

**interlude e.**  
-

 

Gordon had him immediately escorted out of the questioning room, convinced it was ‘too much’ and ‘unnecessary’.

“There is still the trial coming up, wait until we’ve sorted everything out better, until _Dick_ is better. If it were Barbara…” Bruce flinched when Gordon briefly touched his shoulder. “I wouldn’t be able to think straight. I’d want him dead. You can’t be here, trust me.”

Gordon didn’t know he could handle this, but the truth behind Bruce’s compliance was that he wasn’t yet sure how _Bruce_ should handle it. _Batman_ knew, but Bruce Wayne didn’t know how to just stand and watch from behind one way glass this man who was calmly and pleasantly sitting and waiting for the questioning to start, such an antithesis of what he expected from the man who had taken and hidden Dick from him. It was unnerving, not only how much he wanted to overlap his identities but how close he was to breaking all his own rules (because if anyone _this man_ deserved to die – something angry and still eight years old and hurting hissed within him. He quieted it easily, but…).

“Sure, Gordon, thanks. I… Get him good for me,” Bruce replied, sad and angry and genuine. But even as Gordon gave him a pat on the back, Bruce’s mind had retreated to the shadowy corners awaiting him in his city. Batman’s involvement and reaction was much less complicated in this situation. There was always work to be done out there, and Batman couldn’t sit around and obsess over the finished parts of a case.

 

***

 

“I’m surprised you haven’t run off yet,” Batman growled. “It’s already all over the news how your partner’s been caught.”

Patterson may not have tried slipping out of town, but he clearly also had no illusions of this ordeal leaving him untouched. His eyes held a given up kind of weariness as he looked at Batman. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said voice low, and right, no need to incriminate yourself for no good reason, the golden rule.

His hair was damp but drying as though he’d just washed it, and his clothes were clean and loose and casual. The only visible evidence of his anxiety showed in how all the lights of his apartment were off and how there was a large glass of alcohol on the table in front of him. He picked up the glass and swirled it and stared at the liquid in the low light. “How…how is Dick?” He finally asked, hesitantly.

Batman loomed a little more ominously. “You have no right to worry about Richard Grayson’s wellbeing. You were in on the kidnapping.” He used his cape to make his sudden movement towards the teacher look like gliding across the floor. It achieved his goal and made Patterson jump in his seat. “I know you lied to me before, are lying right now.”

“I – you’re not the police,” his carefully unruffled expression had gone tight with a mix of fear and worry. “I don’t have to tell you anything.”

Batman let out a humorless laugh, began taking very slow and measured steps around the kitchen. His aim was to walk around the whole vicinity, fill the space, claim the domain as his to be wholly comfortable in. The deliberate slow motion was clearly unnerving Patterson, who’s wide eyes were pinned to his every shift and step.

“You’re right, you _don’t_ have to tell me anything,” Batman said quietly, and he silently navigated around the table and chair close enough that his cape brushed along Patterson’s back. Patterson jerked forward, his hands clutching white knuckled at the edge of the tabletop.

“I don’t need this!” Patterson hissed. “Don’t you think I feel guilty enough? _I don’t need this_.”

“No,” Batman answered, placidly and firmly to counter Patterson’s spiral out of control. “I don’t think you feel guilty enough.”

Something was burning in him and he knew he had to ignore it, that he couldn’t give in and rough this man up. Instead, as he crossed the kitchen, he kept his back to Patterson and stayed silent. The quiet began to stretch into uncomfortable lengths, which Batman was fine with. The silence of shadows was an old familiar friend to him. Patterson did not feel the same.

“Why are you here?” He whispered, his tone one of morbid curiosity.

“I thought you might run,” Batman explained. “And I wanted to make sure that you didn’t.”

Patterson softly laughed, bitterly. “Ah. On house arrest by Batman. A new low.”

And _those_ words wildly infuriated him. He wanted so badly to take it out on this man who was supposed to be Dick’s teacher, who was supposed to have watched after him and instead sold him out. All the anger and frustration and hate, Batman wanted to focus it on this self-piteous man who thought _he_ was the victim. Right now those feeling were aimed all over, all scattered and ineffective: at himself, at Patterson, at that man who had done such horrible things to Dick –

He spun around abruptly, face schooled into forced passiveness. “No,” he growled. “The low point was when you sold out a little boy for your own wellbeing. And when you obstructed justice as an accomplice and enabler to a criminal. And when you lied to me and prolonged a boy who was once your student’s suffering. This is what you’ve sown.”

His heart was racing with how much he wanted to hit Patterson, to hurt and hurt him until he understood this, that Dick’s life wasn’t a game. There were the sounds of tight, rattling, gasping breathing from behind Batman, the sounds of an unsettled person. _Good, never be able to live with this, let it haunt you until you die_ he thought viciously.

“For what it’s worth I was sitting here waiting for the police to get me.” Patterson gasped out between his dry sobs. “I wasn’t going to run. I know what I did.”

Batman was aware that he lost it for a moment, saw red and saw himself reaching over and grabbing the man by the throat and shaking him and – he forced a deep, calming breath. Re-centered himself.

“That’s worth nothing, in light of what you did,” he said through gritted teeth. “And you know it.”

 

***

 

He left when the police did indeed come for Patterson in the morning with warrants and headed home. Gordon wouldn’t be at his house or alone in his office, so Batman couldn’t confront him and get the latest information out of him. Not only was this case a big deal to Gordon – Dick and Barbara had always been good friends and Bruce made it to enough police benefits and gave enough donations to be well liked around the station – but the city and media had been on the force’s back about how hopeless and inept it was. They were going to put in as much effort as they could to get results and prove everyone wrong. He’d ask Gordon on the specifics and break into the police database to see the recordings of questionings later (besides, it probably was best to wait until Patterson had gone his turn as well and just get both questionings together. Less hacking meant less cover up).

“How is he?” Bruce asked Alfred as he pulled on a pair of workout pants.

“Hasn’t woken since Batman hand delivered him to Wayne Manor’s doorstep. I let the doctor in since you were out rather long. She took a few more samples and checked his levels. He’s fine.” 

Bruce made an acknowledging noise in the back of his throat and eyed the Batcomputer. “We’ll have to compare the results from our samples with hers when they both come in.”

“Very well sir,” Alfred replied compliantly. “Will you be done with the Cave for the night, then?”

Bruce thought of Dick, his hair too long and his limbs too gaunt and his eyes too distant, and felt a flash of anger go through his veins. He focused instead on running through the many checklists in his head. There were so many things he had to do: Batman had been operating outside of Gotham for too long and there were new crime rings that needed investigation to be broken up, the legal stages on Dick’s kidnapping case were going to be bumpy at best, he had to meet with the board and make sure no one thought they’d get away with trying to paint him as unable to run his own company due to emotional compromise, there was the press he’d have to cater to and distract so they didn’t completely blow Dick’s privacy out of the water, and then Dick himself… 

“I think I’ll watch the videos from the planted cameras I left, of when the kidnapper found Dick missing. I might need something incriminating in case either of them deny anything.”

“Or,” Alfred said in a tone that meant he heartily disagreed with Bruce. “You could go sit with Master Richard and make sure he doesn’t wake up alone.”

The way Alfred set his mouth told of his assumptions: that Bruce was running away and avoiding the issue at hand. And Bruce _wasn’t_ , he just understood the importance of patience, of going into this as emotionally reserved as possible. He couldn’t do that until he got over a few things, things like finding Dick stuffed in some chest, and how he wanted to torture and make suffer two grown men who didn’t deserve the mercy of the legal system (and he needed a little bit more time and a lot more therapeutic crime patrol to do that). 

“I can’t Alfred,” Bruce confessed stiffly. “You be there for him right now. I’m going to get in touch with some media moguls and get the worst of it out of the way.” 

And though Alfred shot him a wholly disappointed look, Bruce turned around without another word to sift through his contacts on the computer.

 

***

 

He’d seen the questionings – Patterson had been willing and open about what he knew. And yet the kidnapper himself, though very mindful of wording and only offering answers to questions that had been specifically asked, had been casual and light and ambivalent, had talked easily about what he’d done. That casualness, his answering as though he were recounting a tale of some fond misadventure, didn’t help the tight, hot core of anger buried deep inside Bruce. Then Batman had talked to Gordon about the evidence that had been found and results of the rape kit that had been used on Dick and what it all meant for details that had been left out by the culprits, and the whole picture was very easy to piece together, further feeding that hot core. 

And if he was expecting anything better from Dick than what he’d gotten in North Carolina, then those hopes were sufficiently dashed upon Dick’s awakening. Alfred’s report of his first words had been disheartening enough; Bruce’s own first interaction had been increasingly so. He hadn’t been expecting perfection though, he reminded himself wearily, he _understood_ how this worked.

“He is still in detox. The drugs – ” Alfred began.

“Aren’t helping. But Alfred,” Bruce sighed. “It’s not magic, it’s altered mentality. Underneath the confusion is something there for the drugs to augment.”

Alfred was not deterred. “We’ll work on what we can, and work with what we can’t.”

His eyes were blazed with indignant determination, so Bruce tried to adopt the same and push away the dread from the lingering thoughts of Dick’s pleading and too quick misplaced anger.

 

***

 

Bruce rubbed at his brow. “Gordon, I’d love for Dick to testify against these lowlifes. But he’s just…he’s not okay.”

Gordon nodded solemnly. “I wouldn’t expect him to be. If you’re sure?”

Bruce really wanted Dick to be able to speak against them, but… “He won’t be able to. Not on stand. Not in time for what matters. He…” Bruce swallowed hard and laughed bitterly. “He won’t talk to me, you know. Or when he does he’s angry. It’s very difficult.”

“It’s understandable.”

“How am I going to fix this?” This revealing of weakness was for Gordon’s benefit, but it wasn’t unfounded. He had ideas of how to handle this but only one shot at it, and the need to be careful or else harm Dick in new untold ways was incredibly jarring.

“It’s not really up to you, Wayne. Just be there for him.” 

Bruce sighed heavily. “And even that’s no good. The company’s…”

Gordon frowned. “I saw that in the papers. They’re really angry at you for setting them aside for your kid?”

“Shareholdings went down and my kid isn’t missing anymore, so they’re saying it’s time to get back on track.”

Gordon sighed and shook his head. “Thought it was just gossip. Look, whenever Dick’s ready to talk, could we could interview him and record it to get it on file? If the timing works out I’m sure we can use it, depending on how we handle it. Ask the judge about exceptions and submitting it to court, see if any anyone tries to pull the sixth amendment and complicate it, run from there. The sooner we hear from him the better, of course, but… Don’t worry about it. We have enough to get these guys.”

Bruce nodded faintly, stood, and leaned in to shake hands.

“Those company guys might be right about one thing,” Gordon said softly, as though he was confiding a secret in Bruce. “He’s as safe and sound as we could hope for. Let’s all get back on track.”

Bruce clenched his jaw tightly enough for the crack it made to resound in Gordon’s tiny silent office. “I can only hope Dick _can_.” He very nearly hissed while dropping Gordon’s hand coldly.

“I meant you too,” Gordon explained quietly. “Or even you especially. You’re angry and bitter and you have every reason to be, but you’re going to have to put that aside.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets gruffly. “Dick’s a victim. He needs you. You know how this goes.”

And Bruce did. Too well. “Right,” he murmured after a moment, apologetic for his jumping to conclusions of what Gordon meant. “You’re absolutely right.”

(“Now that that’s done, will you be spending some time with Master Richard tonight?” Alfred asked, lining Bruce’s two on-flight bags up against the wall.

Bruce closed his suitcase. “No.” He could feel displeasure coming off Alfred in waves instantly. “Penguin’s been setting up something while I was away. Best to take care of it sooner rather than later.”

“You know what he thinks of you normally,” Alfred’s voice would be defined as pleading for anyone else. On him it was snappish. “If he’s going to get better he’s going to need you to talk to him. Be with him.”

“I’m not avoiding him,” Bruce said, staring down at his bag as he slowly zipped it up. “I can’t figure out how to do this. And I can’t go charging in and mess up and make him worse. I watched the questionings. The kidnapper admitted that he was conditioning Dick. Alfred, from what he admitted to he was _grooming_ Dick. And that sort of thing with a father figure…I need to gauge. Make sure I do the right thing when I interact. Just give me a little more – ”

“It’s not up to me how much time you have, or what will happen if you wait too long,” Alfred replied, voice flat and withdrawn and he was not impressed. “I’ll hold the fort while you’re gone, but you’d best be – ”

“On my best behavior, get my act together when I come back? I will.” Bruce promised and. And yes, he would find a way to be okay. It’d be the only way he’d be able to come back and face this wildly messed up situation, after all.)

 

***

 

Beating up Penguin and his cronies and foiling their plans was therapeutic enough to neutralize the aggravation that was the board meeting in New York, which had been prolonged over several days to include various overseas manufacturers, all barbed smiles and not-meant pleasantries. He managed just fine through the many many interviews about the company’s newest innovation as well, and the various press meetings meant to assure stockholders that everything was fine and the company wasn’t going to self-destruct – because the floating around murmur that he’d gone off the deep end wasn’t true. That makeshift inner peace, unfortunately, didn’t carry all the way to the benefit in California.

“There are rumors that – !” Every paparazzo with a camera yelled over one another at him on the way inside, “Your ward Richard Grayson’s kidnapping case that captured the nation - !” And Bruce kept smiling and walking.

“Oh the perils of having children Brucie, we’ve heard all about it, oh the poor dear, we’ve met him once at a function, he’s such a sweetheart too,” some of the women simpered, while the less bold only shot him pitying looks. And Bruce smiled and assured them that Dick was getting better, he’d be accompanying him to benefits again in no time.

The men shook his hand and acknowledged his personal tragedy with a little bow of the head, all before testing if he was vulnerable enough to forget himself, asked him about upcoming deals and company decisions and stocks and tried to catch him off guard and siphon out some upper hand. And Bruce smiled politely and declined – _no mixing business with pleasure, gentlemen_ – but seethed.

The benefit was scheduled to end in the early hours of the morning, but Bruce left much earlier while the night was still young (solemn and not drunk with women hanging off his arms for once, the media was going to proclaim proudly tomorrow) and he went back to his hotel room. In any other city he might have gone on patrol, but he was near enough to Star City to be on Green Arrow’s territory and for now he would trust Queen to be on top of things. Instead he tried meditating; it’d been a while and he needed to focus himself, find the solace of a little corner of peace within him.

But, as he sat cross legged on the floor with the lights off and moonlight casting shadows around him, underneath the forced calm something writhed with rage. This wasn’t working, he couldn’t just keep distancing himself and hope for the best. He couldn’t just calm himself and be okay. He _needed_ to get back home, do something about Dick but. But he couldn’t do that either. At the very same time, he had to do _something_ – and he knew what that something he wanted was, couldn’t do _that_ because it was injustice and revenge. Couldn’t descend to that level because then he’d never stop.

There was a way out of this somewhere. There was a lesson to be learned, a contingency plan with the acceptable outcome, no such thing as a dead end or a lost cause.

He knew, without a doubt as he keyed his coordinates into the Batplane’s autopilot GPS from his laptop, what he was getting ready to do was straddling a very very thin line. And he knew without a doubt that he was going to go ahead and test that line anyway.

 

***

 

He shouldn’t do this, he reminded himself, but for all his self-control and discipline he couldn’t dissuade himself – or rather wouldn’t, didn’t want to. This was the solitary exception to his iron-clad resolve, to his approach to justice; to what extent this exception would span was the question. Here was the time to find his answer.

The hardest part of the impromptu mission was determining the guards’ patrol patterns on such short notice. The rest – gassing the control room, sneaking in, quietly knocking out any inmates on the relevant hall, keeping track of exactly how much time he had left – that was easily doable.

“Well I can’t say this is expected,” the man behind the bars quipped far too lightly for someone who was waiting in jail for kidnapping and child rape charges at court. “Haven’t done enough yet, Dark Knight?” 

“Shut up,” he growled menacingly. Batman could too easily imagine snapping this man’s neck or breaking him out of the cell and taking him somewhere far away and secluded where torture was not out of the question. Batman had left the cameras mostly intact and untouched for that reason; personal incentive. “I want you to know that if you get even the slightest leeway, if you are ever given any probation and aren’t put away for life, I will make sure whatever time you aren’t imprisoned, wherever you are, you will be suffering.”

Batman (and Bruce) had broken it all down by now, realized that the only reason this man wasn’t dead – the saving grace for the both of them – was that the repercussions of something like revenge or murder would negatively and directly affect Dick (and Robin), in so many ways.

“Haven’t you done enough?” The man asked again, more grudgingly, and Batman realized that he was bitter, annoyed, upset and how _dare he_ – 

“You can’t claim children,” Batman hissed. He was running out of time, but it was important that this was sorted out as properly as he could manage (or he’d never get over it, would never be able to look at Dick and not feel guilty because he hadn’t done everything in his power to right this wrong). “I haven’t done enough, because chances are you’ll get a slap on the wrist for destroying a child’s life. I _can’t_ do enough to bring you to justice, that’s the truth of it. But you need to know – you were wrong. You were sick and disgusting, and he was never yours.”

The man had jumped to his feet at Batman’s last words, was staring rigidly at him with an expression that was a mix of horror and pain. “The way I see it,” the man murmured, and in the back of his mind Batman knew the officer in the control room would be waking up soon, the gas would be wearing off. “Is _you_ have no right, Batman.” He took a step closer to the cell door, and his face had morphed into gentle, understanding. “After all, you _do_ get it. You say you don’t, but you have your Robin.”

He laughed quietly and took another step and Batman tensed. “Can’t do enough…? How would you feel if someone took your Rob – ”

That was the breaking point. “ _Do not go there_ ,” Batman’s voice was dark and ominous – this man understood _nothing_ of the dangerous territory he had stepped into – and the urge to break into the cell and do something menacing and irreversible was back. But he wouldn’t. He had to be above that.

Batman could hear the nearest patrol’s steps echoing closer down a neighboring hall and reined himself in. Time to wrap this up. “You understand that to the same extent I understand you justifying the things you did to land yourself in here. We are not similar. And that’s what matters.”

The officer was at the end of the corridor, and caught sight of the mass unconsciousness of the inmates right away. He was radioing in an alert at once, as he began shining his flashlight in the cells and investigating.

“Have you seen him?” And the man’s voice was low and hurried and suddenly desperate as he rushed to the front of the cell and pressed himself to the bars. “Since you’ve taken him?”

The flashlight caught onto Batman’s shape and instantly the officer was taken aback, “Batman – ?”

And Batman had been wrong before, about where the breaking point had been – because then the man asked, “Is he – is Dickie missing his Papa?” And if there ever was a time, this was it, he was within arms’ reach and all Batman would have to do was –

And Batman took a deep deep breath, for the second time found himself saying, “It is not your place to ask.”

And it was Bruce who stared down at him coldly from behind the cowl, to drive the point home, _he was never yours_. He then turned slightly towards the immobile, uncertain patrolman. “I apologize for the trouble,” he said to the officer, and with an imperceptible nod he turned and melted in the shadows to make his silent leave.

 

***

 

“I sincerely hope you didn’t think I wouldn’t notice the plane mysteriously leaving on its own,” Alfred said in a tight but clean tone when Bruce finally called. “And I also sincerely hope that you didn’t do anything rash and _messy_ in your state of distress.”

Bruce reminded himself _we’re not similar, that’s what matters_ , and it was okay. It was time to get back on track. “No Alfred. I just put some things in order.”

“Hm,” Alfred sounded unconvinced. “Well, you might like to know that things are in order here as well. Master Richard is making great progress – just yesterday he ate mostly by himself, in fact.”

There were so many things he could say to that: _how is he with you_ , and _how will he be with me_ , and _is he talking more like himself_ –

“Good,” he settled on. “When I get back – we can work on things like that together. I’ve gauged Alfred. I’ve had enough time.”

“In _deed_ ,” Alfred snipped, but his smile was evident in his voice.

Bruce had never been expecting instant perfection, or for Dick to suddenly disassociate him from his former captor. But now he realized – none of them, not Bruce or Alfred or Dick, could do this on their own. And for Dick’s sake, for all of their sakes’, he was ready to face that fact and do what he could to get them through this.

And one day they’d be fine.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this concludes my "phase" of constantly writing about non-consensual sexual themes and topics. It is definitely time to for me to make good on my promise to myself to write about happier things, huh? Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this massive fic that I hadn't known I was capable of writing. Thank you so much for reading.

There were still things that were hard. Like walking, Dick wasn’t used to that anymore, or going to the bathroom on his own. He was really good at holding it, really great at that. But it was humiliating, the first time (and the second, and the third, and the – ) when. When Alfred had to change his sheets. It was really the look of shock on Alfred’s face when it happened that was the worst. And Dick further missed Papa’s laughing forgiveness in the moment that Alfred was struck speechless, when it had become apparent that these _accidents_ weren’t going away quite as soon as anyone had hoped. He was like a little kid again, unable to realize what he needed, and the gradual burgeoning of his realizing that was…increasingly difficult to handle.

At least there was no shock when Alfred had to bathe him after the sheets were changed. They’d crossed that bridge already, and they’d reached the point where Alfred was re-teaching Dick where the soaps and shampoos were kept, that washing was his own responsibility. By now he was only in charge of rinsing Dick off and washing his hair for him, and they were going to work up to showers soon.

It was all very slow: the muscles in his fingers didn’t want to cooperate and curl around a fork without Papa’s whispers strangling him with their quiet heaviness, clothes sometimes itched so much that Dick couldn’t think straight, the smell of roses left him a wreck and made him cry or made him nauseous or sometimes just made him weak in the knees, and he woke up from dreams remembering only snatches – but with a strange aching in his heart and missing muggy nights and the familiar curve of Papa’s chest to lean back on. Slowly he was trying to leave that all behind, those pieces of himself.

And just as slowly he was realizing he didn’t regret anything about Papa. Not that he’d tell anyone that yet, not until J’onn came and he no longer had a choice in keeping it hidden, not until then. But it was a little scary, that he knew what he was supposed to feeling, who he was supposed to be turning into as he got _better_ , no longer distorted on drugs and fresh trauma. He didn’t think he was going to be that person who felt those things, when it was all said and done.

But he and Alfred, they were working towards _something_ , something good and better and what everybody wanted for him, that was for sure.

“You’ll have something good to tell Master Bruce when he returns,” Alfred told him, helping him pull on clean pajamas. “He promises to finish up and be home soon.”

And yet something in Dick’s chest clenched painfully at the thought.

 

***

 

“I think,” Bruce said calmly. “That we should talk about what happened. Get it out of the way.”

Dick didn’t say anything. He wasn’t sure he really knew how to talk to Bruce. They hadn’t really been talking before, not real conversation.

“Are you upset with me? Alfred’s told me of your progress, that he informed you that I wanted to take a more extreme approach. Are you angry that I said that? Or that I haven’t been around?”

Dick kept his eyes trained on a spot on the wall. He knew Wally was angrily amazed that Dick hadn’t left his room yet, wondering how he could stand being enclosed in such a small space for such a long time. (Wally and Alfred had gone head to head in some arguments over whether he was allowed to visit Dick yet, ones that Wally had both respected and gotten around by running up the side of the Wayne Manor and slipping a note in through the crack of his window. Hiding the note had actually been the first act of questionable disobedience he had done in a while, a strangely tiring thing, if only because he hadn’t been sure how much Alfred would have appreciated the sentiment.) Yet to Dick the room was much bigger than he needed to lose himself in. And he didn’t want to talk to Bruce, wanted to escape it by doing just that.

“Dick,” Bruce said, and there was a tremor of some kind of emotion in his voice, something strong that caught Dick’s attention and made him pause in running away into his head. “From what you _have_ said to me, it’s obvious you’re upset with me. Or afraid of me. So I intend to make myself very clear: I love you.”

Dick breathed in a little too quickly and startled himself. He made himself keep looking at the wall. It wasn’t like Bruce was going to crawl into bed with him and hold him and say it, wasn’t like Bruce was going to suddenly become Papa. The weird thing was that at this point Dick wasn’t sure if he wanted that or not.

“I love you,” Bruce repeated, his tone softening and it made Dick’s insides _throb_ with guilt. “I don’t want you to think that I blame you for what happened. I’m not angry at you, I’m only angry with myself and, most of all, with that man. I am so sorry that it took me as long as it did to find you, that I couldn’t save you from what he’d done. I don’t know all of what he told you, but let me make sure you understand that I want nothing but the best for you. I’m not going to yell at you for being a victim, I’m not disappointed in anything you’ve done.” 

He was staring at Dick; Dick could feel the burn of his eyes on him. “If it seems that I am, then…I am sorry. I’m _not_. I’m only approaching this the way I see fit, because I want you to be able to move past this. You survived. You’re here. That’s all I want.”

 _No it’s none of that_ , Dick wanted to say but couldn’t, his throat was tight with sudden revelations and tears and Dick was tired of crying, _it’s that I’m afraid you don’t care_.

 

***

 

Dick walked down to the gardens, because he was supposed to be building his leg muscles back up. They felt weirdly tight and a little tired by the time he made it down all the stairs, but. He was good. Vibrant. Alive. This was the farthest he’d made it yet.

Bruce was silently ghosting behind him, and behind _him_ , though still in the house, was Alfred.

Dick took a deep breath, the weather cool in comparison to what he’d been so accustomed to, the smell of wet soil and wet plants in the air. “I think I felt guilty,” he said with no preamble, and though Bruce didn’t move or make a sound, Dick could feel the air get weightier between them. “That. I replaced you with someone. And I get afraid, of stupid things like saying thank you and letting you hold me, because what if I start to mix you up? You and him? I don’t want to be confused. Which was why I was _mad_ at you. Because…with Papa, it was really straight forward. Everything. Sometimes, with you, I don’t even know if you really see me, past being Robin. I’m Dick…” He had to stop and steady his voice. Remember where the syllables stopped. “I’m _Dick_ , too. And with Papa I knew, that that’s who he was seeing.”

There were tiny pinpricks to the edges of his eyes, but he was going to get through this. “I’m not stupid, when everything’s put into perspective I get that it was wrong. But it doesn’t change that, for a while there, it was just the two of us and.” Dick’s shoulders were shaking, his whole _body_ was shaking, and he was trying, was trying so hard. “He loved me.”

And as though with those last words went his strength, Dick’s knees buckled from under him and he sank to the ground. He heard Bruce begin to approach him, with a careful hurrying he’d mastered as Batman, and Dick closed his eyes. Because if he couldn’t see that he was crying then it was like he really wasn’t, and it wasn’t like he hadn’t tried that trick before but…

Bruce gently placed his hand on Dick’s back and quietly reassured him, “Okay. That’s fine. We will work through this. However long it takes.”

 

***

 

Dick was getting better all the time, though Alfred still had to throw out any roses in get well bouquets sent to the mansion. Though there was still sometimes a lapse in response when Bruce called him ‘Dick’. Though sessions with J’onn were still being put off and Dick was nowhere near as talkative as he’d once been. But being a work in progress was not a bad thing, he reminded himself.

He sat cross legged on the Cave floor, reveling in how much he’d missed the place. It was wet and cold (and _perfect_ ), just like he had remembered in those bouts of homesickness.

Bruce was doing something on the Batcomputer, and Dick was sitting on the floor half watching, finding comfort in Bruce’s presence.

“Do you want a chair? Are you tired?” Bruce asked occasionally, and though Dick’s eyelids were becoming heavy, he mumbled, “No.”

Eventually Alfred came and whisked him away for his after dinner ritual – face washing, teeth brushing, a bath, and into pajamas – but let him return. Bruce had set out a bean bag chair for him in his absence, and Dick flopped down on it without a word.

Bruce let the silence lay comfortably between them for some time. “You’ll be able to have visitors soon,” he mentioned, as though an afterthought, despite neither of them having said anything. “You’re in a better place, mentally, now.”

Dick rested his cheek on the soft material of the chair. “Yeah.”

“That means you’ll have to talk to J’onn. And not only that.” Bruce stopped what he was doing on the computer and turned around to look at Dick. Dick blinked sleepily and sat up a little straighter, trying to appear alert.

“The police. They don’t _need_ your account to put that man behind bars – he and your teacher have already confessed to the kidnapping, and elements of his confession along with medical evidence have him on counts of child sexual assault. But we don’t know all he did to you. And they want to know.” Bruce didn’t say it, but Dick could tell that he wanted to know as well. He was giving Dick an out, though.

“Okay,” Dick replied, and his voice was a little faint because of the daunting task that _telling_ presented itself as, but. But he could do it. He just. Had to try. “I don’t think I could have, if Papa wasn’t already guilty. If Papa hadn’t confessed to anything and it all depended on me.” There was shame in what he was saying, he knew that. “I wouldn’t be able to, you know. Sell him out. But like this, it’s okay.”

Bruce was tense. He always was when Dick called Papa ‘Papa’, and he knew enough to know that Bruce probably wanted to shout at him to quit it. Instead, Bruce reached somewhere behind him and clicked on something that made the computer’s screen display change. “We’ve been analyzing the chemicals,” Bruce explained, voice soft, despite his underlying agitation. “The ones you were drugged with, tried to find how he got them in you so regularly. Would you like to know? Do you think it’s time?”

Dick swallowed hard, only dully surprised by where this had ended up, but didn’t break eye contact with Bruce. He had to talk to the police soon. He had to face this head on. “Yeah. Just. I…can you not, not tell me what…Papa’s just Papa, okay? I don’t know if I could handle – ” He knew he was asking for a big thing here. It didn’t matter that he was, not to him, not nearly as much as making sure Papa stayed Papa in his mind did. “Maybe later. Maybe years from now. But right now…”

Bruce stopped to consider it and, after an extra pause that was probably reluctance, nodded once. “Understood. No name.”

He gestured to the screen behind him, and a glance at it told Dick that it was figures of several chemical structures. Bruce didn’t turn around to read off the sheet; clearly he had committed it all to memory.

“There were noticeable quantities of this,” Bruce meant the first chemical. “In the water tables – the well and the water tank. All the water in that house was pumped full of it, which suggests premeditation because the levels have to be kept in certain constants. It enters the bloodstream through ingestion, so when he was questioned why there were only trace amounts of it in his body he explained he didn’t drink water at home.”

Dick’s heart stuttered. Chapped lips. And juice, he always drank juice.

“It’s mostly harmless physiologically, but it is a sedative that numbs fight or flight instincts. Makes focusing difficult, weakens suspicion and detail retention abilities. In short, a good drug to keep a victim trusting and less likely to fight back.”

Dick wanted to laugh, but. But something in him went a little cold, a little horrified, and whispered _really?_ because…

(Because _the smell of dirt in the air_ and _that’s what this is for, to keep the water safe to drink_ and _you can help me if you’d like, there are no secrets between you and I, Dickie_ )

Bruce sensed Dick’s turmoil, and his expression changed from clinical to worried, eyebrows knitting together and mouth just barely frowning. “There’s more, are you alright to hear it? Or do you want to stop?”

Dick needed to hear this. He needed to get over Papa, and he needed to know this. “Keep going,” he said, though it came out more as a shaky exhale.

Bruce clicked something else and a new figure popped up. “There were books in the house. Did you read them?”

Dick nodded slowly, and there was dread because _oh_. “Yeah. They were presents. From Papa.”

Bruce’s knuckles whitened and Dick knew it was from him clenching his fingers tightly in aggravation. _Stop calling him ‘Papa’_ , Bruce probably wanted to yell, despite his understanding, despite the fact that it was all Dick wanted to know him by and Bruce was trying to respect that, _that’s not his NAME it’s just a sick and twisted game he played with your head_. Even though Bruce was trying to hold it back, Dick could sense it, and ha, he thought bitterly. It would have been good if he could have sensed these sort of things weeks and weeks ago, but. But.

“Right,” Bruce continued. “Well, the books’ pages were laced with a different, powdered sedative. Prolonged exposure set it off through the respiratory system. Similar to Scarecrow’s hallucinogens, it makes the mind more sensitive to mental suggestion and sensory overload. The chest you – ” Unlike Alfred, Bruce had problems mentioning that part. Probably because he had been the one to open the lid and find Dick curled up inside. “…That satin chest also was lined with it. You were completely soaked in drugs when we got you.”

“Yeah, I spent a lot of time in that chest,” Dick whispered, only it was into his knees because he’d pulled them up to his chest by now, folded in on himself. “I – _why_? He said he loved me.”

Bruce looked closely at Dick, deliberating. “Maybe another time, Dick?”

“No,” he really wasn’t going to cry this time. He was going to get through this, and he wasn’t going to cry and one day he wasn’t going to think of Papa and underneath all the rage and pain have a little flower of hope, of need, for him. And this was that first step to take in that direction, he couldn’t be afraid or cry. “Why? How? _Tell me_.”

Bruce calmly slid his expression back into neutral. “Your mathletes’ competition was in Florida. It was an end of the year field trip. Your team and the advisor and sponsor for your club, Daniel Patterson, were going to fly first class from Gotham to North Carolina, then connect to a flight to Florida. Do you remember that?”

Dick nodded slowly. “Yeah. You went to the boosters’ meeting; it was one of the last things I remembered about you before things got hazy and blank.”

“On the flight to North Carolina, Patterson drugged you. He’s confessed to having put it in your drink. The drugs began to affect you heavily after the landing while waiting for the layover. He escorted you to the bathroom, under the guise that you were sick, and once there, drugged you further to render you unconscious.” Bruce was struggling to keep his voice level, and that was fine, because Dick was struggling to keep disassociated with this.

“This had all been previously set up. Patterson was a mole planted by…‘ _Papa_ ’, at your school. ‘Papa’ left an empty red suitcase in the stall ahead of time for Patterson. He put you in it, so you would not draw attention or compromise the plan, then left to go check on your teammates.”

Dick was beginning to appreciate that he didn’t remember this. Any of this.

“While he was gone, ‘Papa’ entered the bathroom with an identical packed suitcase, switched them, and left the airport with you. Patterson only had to look for and be unable to find you, take the proper actions of reporting you missing, before flying down to Florida to continue chaperoning your peers. You know the rest.”

“But why?” Dick asked again; it was urgent that he understood and he _didn’t_. The beanbag chair was no longer comfortable beneath him, instead too squishy, too malformed to keep his rigid body supported.

Bruce was visibly gathering up his resolve to see this through to the end. If they were any closer to one another, Dick felt that Bruce might have grabbed him and hugged him tightly. As it was, Bruce stared at Dick, eyes bright and intense, as though trying to convince him that in the end it was all okay. “‘Papa’ was obsessed with you. The police did a thorough search of the house. In the bathroom in his room, under the floorboards, was a secret compartment. It was essentially a shrine to you. He’d been collecting news articles of you, pictures, magazine reports, stolen items from school, anything about you. From since I adopted you.”

Bruce paused heavily. Then cut right back in, like his voice hadn’t snagged. “Since I adopted you and you entered the public eye, he said. He admitted that, eventually, he wanted to move you from the chest to the compartment, keep you locked up under the floor. ‘A perfect place’, he said.”

Once more Bruce paused; this time broke eye contact and bowed his head, sighing. Dick could see the worry in the line of his back, the ‘what ifs’ on his mind, and he was right to. They were lucky Papa hadn’t gotten to that. “He was a sick, obsessed man. He was also the owner and manager of a bank of a small town. Of Patterson’s hometown. He used the power he had over your teacher’s uncle’s finances as incentive for Patterson to move out to Gotham and apply for a job at your school. Patterson succeeded in becoming a teacher there and kept close tabs on you, sneaking information and pictures and _things_ – lost pencils, old gym shorts, kept assignments – in mailed reports, _updates_ on you, back to North Carolina.”

Bruce’s tone turned growling, disgusted, and Dick wished they _were_ closer, so he could put a hand on Bruce’s knee to say that hey, in the end it was all okay (because he too had to keep believing in that). “Patterson said it was in this past year that ‘Papa’ decided this wasn’t enough, and began to make plans to get you in his grasp. By then Patterson was too much of an accomplice to want to go to the authorities about it.”

Bruce’s jaw was taut with obvious disapproval. “He said he’d been convinced that ‘Papa’ was just coming up with fantasies and delusions, didn’t realize how intent he was until the last few months, when Patterson really _had_ , from a legal standpoint, been an accomplice. That’s how, and that’s why.”

It felt like there was something heavy sitting on top of Dick’s chest. “At least – tell me he was at least – he said he was Romani – ”

“No,” Bruce said. “That was a lie.”

Dick tried to swallow, tried to say something, but there was an unnatural tightness gripping his throat. Oh.

Neither of them spoke for a while, just silence and the ambient noises of the Cave. Dick soaked it all in and blinked and he was alive. In the end it was all okay, he reminded himself. “Okay. Okay, yeah.”

And he breathed.

 

***

 

Dick’s first meeting with people other than Bruce and Alfred was alone with the Commissioner in the living room. Dick didn’t remember a lot about this meeting, but he didn’t have to because Gordon had a video camera and a tape recorder and took notes and Dick just talked about what happened with Papa. He kind of thought it best that he didn’t really remember how he worded it all – he felt a little like he’d be embarrassed to know what he’d said.

“Barbara gives her best,” Gordon muttered before leaving the doorway, down the steps and driveway into the dark of the night, and Dick couldn’t comprehend that yet. Everyone was like that, so worried from before and now relieved yet still worried about the after of it all. And he was thankful for their concern, but Dick didn’t know either how it was going to turn out now that everything was said and done.

The second was with some friends from school, mainly his mathlete team, in the kitchen with snacks. They were cautiously upbeat around him, telling him how he was a superstar at school and how, after summer break ended, he was going to be really really popular. They regaled how a bunch of classes had done all these hope projects, like folding paper flowers with pithy little messages on the petals to send to the Wayne residence, and how they even had a memorial service for him as the school year had drawn to a close without any updates on his location. Dick laughed and they took it as their cue that they could laugh about it too, because after all, he was back, safe and sound.

It was all pretty alright, except for when Catalina was in the midst of making one of her trademark dirty jokes only to be cut off by Tad elbowing her in the stomach so she fell silent.

“Sorry,” she muttered after an uncomfortable moment. Tad had mumbled angrily under his breath at her, and the rest of the team tried to melt into the background, like it would make this any less awkward, like they weren’t all waiting to see if he would burst into tears.

“It’s…really fine. Really.” Dick said quietly.

The rest of the visit was much more subdued, and soon after Alfred whisked in with the announcement that Dick needed to get some rest and they could all come back some time next week if Dick was feeling up to it, and then ushered them all out. Even while wondering if everything really ever would get back to ‘fine’, Dick could set aside his sudden onset of frustration to feel eternally thankful to Alfred for his spectacular timing and ability to read atmospheres.

“Thanks,” he offered quietly as he helped pick up the plates.

Alfred feigned ignorance, already at the sink with the tap running. “Whatever for?” And Dick ducked his head down to hide the sudden watery quality of his smile from the tears.

He was worried about his third meeting, because that was with his other, closer team. It didn’t go badly though, and they had it out in the garden because Dick liked it out there. He’d revised his thoughts about small spaces, no longer enjoyed how they made him sleepy and shut down. He liked the open sky and how he tried to fill its empty spaces with his thoughts.

M’gann kept a little distance from him, floating away from the garden table everyone was seated at and instead over by the fish pond in mock over-interest in the tiny ecosystem thriving in it. She was a weak and distant sort of cheery that paled in her usual beaming self, and Dick could only assume that he was projecting too loudly things she didn’t want to pry into. He made note to apologize later in private to her.

“The adults wouldn’t let us help find you,” Conner grumbled. “And I really wanted to punch the guy-who-kidnapped-you’s face in.”

“That’s probably exactly why they wouldn’t let us help.” Artemis pointed out silkily. “Though, from the rumors, apparently Batman really didn’t let anyone help. At least, he wasn’t keeping anyone updated on his progress.”

Kaldur sighed, handing Dick a strange trinket, something colorful that felt like porcelain between his fingers. “Perhaps we should focus less on past rumors and more on what we are here for.” Though the words perhaps should have been slightly berating towards the others, Kaldur’s tone was inoffensive and calm, and there was a hint of a smile in it as he gestured to the trinket. “This is…an Atlantean children’s toy, really, but it is supposed to keep bad magic away from you as you sleep. They have basic defensive magic bound to them with the bright ink, and I thought the gesture would be reassuring.”

“It’s basically a less gaudy version of a dream catcher,” Wally interjected, and Dick rolled his eyes at the skepticism in Wally’s voice because of course, _him and magic_. “Apparently Kaldur’s a really soft, sentimental guy underneath the dense Atlantean skin.”

Kaldur sighed again, shaking his head, as Artemis snickered and, over by the pond, M’gann laughed. Dick did too, but he smiled and held on to the trinket a little tighter. “Thanks.”

Wally leaned over and waved his hands in Dick’s face. “Uh, _anyway_ dude, I totally heard that you had your school friends over before us, what the heck?”

Dick batted his hands away and rolled his eyes. Banter was still too heavy on his tongue, but he tried to play along anyway. “Just because you guys all know my secret identity now, doesn’t mean I don’t have to keep up pretenses for the media. Plus, they were worried, they knew first when I went missing.”

There was a general consensus of disapproving throat noises, though these mainly came from Wally and Artemis, and Conner’s frown deepened into something thoughtful. 

“I’m pretty sure we have a deeper bond than them,” Conner argued boldly. “Since we know both your identities and have saved the world together a few times. Just saying.”

Dick was surprised into a laugh, and could appreciate that his friends, _these_ friends –

(“I don’t mind your thoughts,” M’gann whispered to him, voice low and careful, before she left. She and Conner were the last ones, and he was waiting for her in the distance to head back to Mount Justice. Conner could probably hear her, but had learned enough about courtesy by now to not let them know if he was eavesdropping.

“But,” she said. “They are screaming that they want to be left alone. Private. And that some of them are ashamed. I’m glad that you’re doing okay, but I hope that one day you can be doing _wonderfully_.”)

These friends were not so afraid that he’d break if they said the wrong thing.

 

***

 

Dick could do this. Bruce squeezed his shoulder reassuringly.

Dick could shower by himself. He could eat using both a spoon and a fork, and next would be knives, and then chopsticks. Alfred watched silently but warmly, like always, and nodded when Dick met his eye.

Dick could go to the bathroom without someone having to walk him to it and stand outside the door diligently. He was talking more and more every day, remembering his sense of humor, could do a double back handspring again and stick the landing. J’onn looked at him and gestured around the room. “Where would you like to do this?”

The smell of roses – real or artificial – still made his stomach feel weak, sometimes he dreamt of Papa and woke with his underwear sticky-wet and afraid of what that meant about him and his future, and the thought of the feel of satin or silk made him gag. He sometimes had to crawl into Bruce’s bed – or Alfred’s if Bruce was gone – in the middle of the night because he felt like he couldn’t breathe, he was so lonely in his own bed by himself. “I think in the garden. I’ve really liked it out there lately.”

But that was okay, Dick thought as they headed outside, just the two of them. Because he was moving towards something and in the end, that final result, it would be a him that he’d had a part in making.

“Take a deep breath and relax,” J’onn advised, sitting across from him at the table. “Tell me when you’ve had enough, and I’ll stop and we’ll talk about what we’ve explored. We’ll take it slow.”

“Okay, yeah,” Dick said.

And he opened his mind up to the sky.


End file.
